THE    JOY    OF   LIFE 


THE    JOY    OF    LIFE 

[LA    JOIE    DE    VIVRE] 


BY 

EMILE    ZOLA 


EDITED,    WITH    A    PREFACE,    BY 
ERNEST  ALFRED  VIZETELLY 


THE    MARION     COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 

1915 


PREFACE 


'  LA  JOIE  DE  VIVEB,'  here  translated  as '  The  Joy  of  Life,'  was 
written  by  M.  Zola  in  1888,  partly  at  his  country  house  at 
Me"  dan,  and  partly  at  B6nodet,  a  little  seaside  i  place  in  Brit- 
tany. The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid,  however,  on  the  coast 
of  the  neighbouring  province  of  Normandy,  between  the 
mouth  of  the  Orne  and  the  rocks  of  Grandcamp,  where  the 
author  had  sojourned,  more  than  once,  in  previous  years. 
The  title  selected  by  him  for  this  book  is  to  be  taken  in  an 
ironical  or  sarcastic  sense.  There  is  no  joy  at  all  in  the 
lives  of  the  characters  whom  he  portrays  in  it.  The  story 
of  the  '  hero '  is  one  of  mental  weakness,  poisoned  by  a  con- 
stantly recurring  fear  of  death ;  whilst  that  of  his  father  is 
one  of  intense  physical  suffering,  blended  with  an  eager 
desire  to  continue  living,  even  at  the  cost  of  yet  greater  torture. 
Again,  the  story  of  the  heroine  is  one  of  blighted  affections, 
the  wrecking  of  all  which  might  have  made  her  life  worth 
living.  And  there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  the  various 
pictures  of  human  existence  which  are  thus  presented  to  us ; 
however  much  some  people,  in  their  egregious  vanity,  may 
recoil  from  the  idea  that  life  and  love  and  talent  and  glory 
are  all  very  poor  and  paltry  things. 

M.  Zola  is  not  usually  a  pessimist.  One  finds  many  of 
his  darkest  pictures  relieved  by  a  touch  of  hopefulness  ;  but 
there  is  extremely  little  in  the  pages  of  '  La  Joie  de  Vivre,' 
which  is  essentially  an  analysis  of  human  suffering  and 
misery.  Nevertheless,  the  heroine,  Pauline  Quenu,  the 
daughter  of  the  Quenus  who  figure  largely  in  '  Le  Ventre  de 
Paris  '  ('  The  Fat  and  the  Thin '),  is  a  beautiful,  touching, 
and  almost  consolatory  creature.  She  appears  to  the  reader 


vi  PREFACE 

as  the  embodiment  of  human  abnegation  and  devotion.  Her 
guardians  rob  her,  but  she  scarcely  heeds  it;  her  lover 
Lazare,  their  son,  discards  her  for  another  woman,  but  she 
forgives  him.  It  is  she  who  infuses  life  into  the  lungs  of 
her  rival's  puny  babe ;  and  when  Lazare  yields  to  his  horrible 
fear  of  death  it  is  she  who  tries  to  comfort  him,  who 
endeavours  to  dispel  the  gloomy  thoughts  which  poison  his 
hours.  No  sacrifice  is  too  great  for  her — money,  love,  she 
relinquishes  everything,  in  the  vain  hope  of  securing  a 
transient  happiness  for  the  man  to  whom  she  has  given  her 
heart.  At  times,  no  doubt,  she  yearns  for  his  affection,  she 
experiences  momentary  weaknesses,  but  her  spirit  is  strong, 
and  it  invariably  triumphs  over  her  rebellious  flesh. 

Lazare,  on  the  other  hand,  is  one  of  those  wretched 
beings  whose  number  seems  to  be  constantly  increasing  in 
our  midst,  the  product  of  our  corrupt  civilisation,  our  gro- 
tesque educational  systems,  our  restlessness  and  thirst  for 
wealth,  our  thousand  vices  and  our  blatant  hypocrisy.  At 
the  same  time  he  is  a  talented  young  fellow,  as  are  so  many 
of  the  wretched  decadents  of  nowadays ;  and  '  something 
more  or  something  less  '  in  his  brain  might  have  turned  his 
talent  into  genius.  In  this  respect,  indeed,  he  suggests 
another  of  M.  Zola's  characters,  Claude  Lantier,  the  painter 
of  '  L'CEuvre ' ;  but  he  is  far  weaker  than  was  Claude,  whose 
insanity  sprang  from  his  passion  for  his  art,  whereas  Lazare's 
mental  disorder  is  the  fruit  of  that  lack,  both  of  will-power 
and  of  the  spirit  of  perseverance,  which  always  becomes  mani- 
fest in  decaying  races.  Briefly,  he  is  a  type  of  the  talented, 
versatile,  erratic  weakling — a  variety  of  what  Paris  expres- 
sively calls  the  arriviste,  who  loomed  so  largely  through 
the  final  years  of  the  last  century,  and  who  by  force  of 
numbers,  not  of  power,  threatens  to  dominate  the  century 
which  has  just  begun. 

In  one  respect  Lazare  differs  greatly  from  Claude  Lantier. 
Claude's  insanity  drove  him  to  suicide,  but  Lazare  shrinks 
from  the  idea  of  annihilation.  His  whole  life  indeed  is 
blighted  by  the  unreasoning  fear  of  death  to  which  I  have 


PREFACE  vii 

previously  alluded.  In  the  brightest  momenta  of  Lazare's 
existence,  in  the  broad  sunshine,  amid  the  fairest  scenes  of 
Nature,  in  the  very  transports  of  love,  as  in  moments  of 
anxiety  and  bereavement,  and  as  in  the  gloom,  the  silence, 
and  the  solitude  of  night,  the  terrible,  ever-recurring  thought 
flashes  on  him :  '  My  God,  my  God,  so  one  must  die ! ' 
In  the  course  of  years  this  dread  is  intensified  by  the  death  of 
his  mother  and  his  old  dog ;  and  neither  of  the  women  who 
love  him — the  devoted  Pauline,  whom  he  discards,  and  the 
puppet  Louise,  whom  he  marries — can  dispel  it.  The  pious 
may  argue  that  this  fear  of  death  is  only  natural  on  the  part 
of  an  unbeliever,  and  that  the  proper  course  for  Lazare  to 
have  pursued  was  to  have  sought  the  consolation  of 
religion.  But  they  have  only  to  visit  a  few  lunatic  asylums 
to  find  in  them  extremely  devout  patients,  who,  whilst 
believing  in  a  resurrection  and  a  future  life,  nevertheless 
dread  death  quite  as  keenly  as  Lazare  Chanteau  did.  Indeed, 
this  fear  of  dissolution  constitutes  a  well-known  and  perfectly 
defined  disorder  of  the  brain,  rebellious  alike  to  scientific  and 
to  spiritual  treatment. 

By  the  side  of  Lazare  and  Pauline  '  La  Joie  de  Vivre ' 
shows  us  the  former's  parents.  There  is  Lazare's  mother, 
who  despoils  and  wrongs  Pauline  for  his  benefit,  who  lives 
a  life  of  sour  envy,  and  who  dies  a  wretched  death,  fearful  of 
punishment.  And  there  is  his  father,  whose  only  thought  ia 
bis  stomach,  and  who,  as  I  have  mentioned,  clings  despair- 
ingly to  a  semblance  of  life  amid  the  direst  physical  anguish. 
Louise,  whom  Lazare  marries,  is  a  skilfully  drawn  type  of  the 
weak,  pretty,  scented,  coquettish,  frivolous  woman,  who  seems 
to  have  been  with  us  ever  since  the  world  began,  the  woman 
to  whom  men  are  drawn  by  a  perversion  of  natural  instincts, 
and  whom  they  need,  perhaps,  in  order  that  in  their  saner 
moments  they  may  the  better  appreciate  the  qualities  of 
those  few  who  resemble  Pauline.  As  for  the  subordinate 
characters  of  the  story,  the  grumpy  Norman  servant,  though 
of  a  type  often  met  with  in  M.  Zola's  stories,  is  perhaps  the 
best,  the  various  changes  in  her  disposition  towards  the 


viii  PREFACE 

heroine  being  described  with  great  fidelity  to  human  nature. 
Then  the  rough  but  kind-hearted  old  doctor,  the  sturdy, 
tolerant  priest,  the  artful  and  vicious  village  children,  are  all 
admirably  delineated  by  M.  Zola,  and  grouped  around  the 
central  figures  in  such  wise  as  to  add  to  the  truth,  interest,  and 
impressiveness  of  his  narrative.  And,  painful  as  the  tale  at 
times  may  be,  it  is  perhaps  as  well,  in  these  days  of  pride 
and  vanity,  that  one  should  be  recalled  now  and  again  to  a 
sense  of  the  abject  grovelling  which  unhappily  characterises 
such  a  vast  number  of  human  lives.  It  may  slightly  console 
one,  no  doubt,  to  remember  that  there  are  at  least  some 
Paulines  among  us.  But  then,  how  few  they  are,  and  how 
numerous  on  the  other  hand  are  the  men  like  Lazare  and 
the  women  like  his  mother !  When  all  is  considered,  judging 
by  what  one  sees  around  one  every  day,  one  is  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  this  diseased  world  of  ours  makes  extremely 
little  progress  towards  real  sanity  and  health. 

E.  A.  V. 
MERTON,  SURREY. 


THE    JOY    OF    LIFE 


WHEN  the  cuckoo-clock  in  the  dining-room  struck  six, 
Chanteau  lost  all  hope.  He  rose  with  a  painful  effort  from  the 
arm-chair  in  which  he  was  sitting,  warming  his  heavy,  gouty 
legs  before  a  coke  fire.  Ever  since  two  o'clock  he  had  been 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  Madame  Chanteau,  who,  after  five 
weeks'  absence,  was  to-day  expected  to  bring  from  Paris  their 
little  cousin,  Pauline  Quenu,  an  orphan  girl,  ten  years  of  age, 
whose  guardianship  they  had  undertaken. 

'  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,  Veronique,'  he  said,  opening 
the  kitchen-door.  '  Some  accident  must  have  happened  to 
them.' 

The  cook,  a  tall  stout  woman  of  five-and-thirty,  with 
hands  like  a  man's  and  a  face  like  a  gendarme's,  was  just 
removing  from  the  fire  a  leg  of  mutton,  which  seemed  in 
imminent  danger  of  being  over- done.  She  did  not  express 
her  irritation  in  words,  but  the  pallor  of  her  usually  ruddy 
cheeks  betokened  her  displeasure. 

'  Madame  has,  no  doubt,  stayed  in  Paris,'  she  said  curtly, 
1  looking  after  that  endless  business  which  is  putting  us  all 
topsy-turvy.' 

'  No  I  no ! '  answered  Chanteau.  '  The  letter  we  had 
yesterday  evening  said  that  the  little  girl's  affairs  were  com- 
pletely settled.  Madame  was  to  arrive  this  morning  at  Caen, 
where  she  intended  making  a  short  stay  to  see  Davoine. 
At  one  o'clock  she  was  to  take  the  train  again ;  at  two  she 
would  alight  at  Bayeux ;  at  three,  old  Malivoire's  coach 
would  put  her  down  at  Arromanches.  Even  if  Malivoire 
wasn't  ready  to  start  at  once,  Madame  ought  to  have  been 

B 


2  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

here  by  four  o'clock,  or  by  half-past  at  the  latest.  There  are 
scarcely  six  miles  from  Arromanches  to  Bonneville.' 

The  cook  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  joint,  and  only  shook 
her  head  while  these  calculations  were  thrown  at  her.  After 
some  little  hesitation  Chanteau  added :  '  I  think  you  had 
better  go  to  the  corner  of  the  road  and  look  if  you  can  see 
anything  of  them,  Ve"ronique.' 

She  glared  at  him,  growing  still  paler  with  suppressed 
anger. 

'  Why  ?  What  for  ?  Monsieur  Lazare  is  already  out 
there,  getting  drenched  in  looking  for  them  :  and  what's  the 
good  of  my  going  and  getting  wet  through  also  ?  ' 

'  The  truth  is,'  murmured  Chanteau,  softly,  '  that  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  uneasy  about  my  son  as  well.  He 
ought  to  have  been  back  by  this  time.  What  can  he  have 
been  doing  out  on  the  road  for  the  last  hour  ?  ' 

Without  vouchsafing  any  answer  Ve"ronique  took  from  a 
nail  an  old  black  woollen  shawl,  which  she  threw  over  her 
head  and  shoulders.  Then,  as  she  saw  her  master  following 
her  into  the  passage,  she  said  to  him,  rather  snappishly : 
1  Go  back  to  your  fire,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  bellowing  with 
pain  to-morrow.' 

She  shut  the  door  with  a  bang,  and  put  on  her  clogs  while 
standing  on  the  steps  and  crying  out  to  the  wind  : 

'  The  horrid  little  brat  I     Putting  us  to  all  this  trouble  I ' 

Chanteau's  composure  remained  perfect.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  Veionique's  ebullitions  of  temper.  She  had  entered 
his  service  in  the  first  year  of  his  married  life,  when  she  was 
but  a  girl  of  fifteen.  As  soon  as  the  sound  of  her  clogs  had 
died  away,  he  bolted  off  like  a  schoolboy,  and  planted  himself 
at  the  other  end  of  the  passage,  before  a  glass  door  which 
overlooked  the  sea.  There  he  stood  for  a  moment,  gazing 
at  the  sky  with  his  blue  eyes.  He  was  a  short,  stout  man, 
with  thick  closely-cut  white  hair.  He  was  scarcely  fifty- 
six  years  old,  but  gout,  to  which  he  was  a  martyr,  had 
prematurely  aged  him. 

Just  then  he  was  feeling  anxious  and  troubled,  and  hoped 
that  little  Pauline  would  be  able  to  win  Ve"ronique's  affec- 
tion. But  was  it  his  fault  that  she  was  coming  ?  When  the 
Paris  notary  had  written  to  tell  him  that  his  cousin  Quenu, 
whose  wife  had  died  some  six  months  previously,  had  just 
died  also,  charging  him  in  his  will  with  the  guardianship  of 
his  little  daughter,  he  had  not  felt  able  to  refuse  the  trust. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  3 

It  was  true  they  had  not  seen  much  of  one  another,  as  the 
family  had  heen  dispersed.  Chanteau's  father,  after  leaving 
the  South  and  wandering  all  over  France  as  a  journeyman 
carpenter,  had  established  a  timber-yard  at  Caen ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  Quenu,  at  his  mother's  death,  had  gone  to 
Paris,  where  one  of  his  uncles  had  subsequently  given  him  a 
flourishing  pork-butcher's  business,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
market  district.1  They  had  only  met  each  other  some  two  or 
three  times,  on  occasions  when  Chanteau  had  been  compelled 
by  his  gout  to  quit  his  business  and  repair  to  Paris  for 
special  medical  advice.  But  the  two  men  had  ever  had  a 
genuine  respect  for  one  another,  and  the  dying  father  had 
probably  thought  that  the  sea  air  would  be  beneficial  to  his 
daughter.  The  girl,  too,  as  the  heiress  of  the  pork-butcher's 
business,  would  certainly  be  no  charge  upon  them.  Madame 
Chanteau,  indeed,  had  fallen  so  heartily  into  the  scheme  that 
she  had  insisted  upon  saving  her  husband  all  the  dangerous 
fatigue  of  the  journey  to  Paris.  Setting  off  alone  and 
bustling  about  she  had  settled  everything,  in  her  perpetual 
craving  for  activity ;  and  Chanteau  was  quite  contented  so 
long  as  his  wife  was  pleased. 

But  what  could  be  detaining  the  pair  of  them  ?  Anxiety 
seized  him  again,  as  he  looked  out  upon  the  dark  sky,  over 
which  the  west  wind  was  driving  huge  masses  of  black 
clouds,  like  sooty  rags  whose  tattered  ends  draggled  far  away 
into  the  sea.  It  was  one  of  those  March  gales,  when  the 
equinoctial  tides  beat  furiously  upon  the  shores.  The  flux 
was  only  just  setting  in,  and  all  that  could  be  seen  of  it  was 
a  thin  white  bar  of  foam,  far  away  towards  the  horizon. 
The  wide  expanse  of  bare  beach,  a  league  of  rocks  and  gloomy 
seaweed,  its  level  surface  blotched  here  and  there  with  dark 
pools,  had  a  weirdly  melancholy  aspect  as  it  lay  stretched  out 
beneath  the  quickly  increasing  darkness  that  fell  from  the 
black  clouds  scudding  across  the  skies. 

'  Perhaps  the  wind  has  overturned  them  into  some  ditch,' 
murmured  Chanteau. 

He  felt  constrained  to  go  out  and  look.  He  opened  the 
glass  door,  and  ventured  in  his  list-slippers  on  to  the 
gravelled  terrace  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  village. 
A  few  drops  of  rain  were  dashed  against  his  face  by  the 

1  See  '  The  Fat  and  the  Thin,'  in  which  story  already  figures  little 
Pauline,  who  becomes  the  heroine  of  '  The  Joy  of  Life.' — ED. 

si 


4  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

hurricane,  and  a  terrific  gust  made  his  thick  blue  woollen 
dressing-jacket  flap  and  flap  again.  But  he  struggled  on, 
bareheaded  and  bending  down,  and  at  last  reached  the  parapet, 
over  which  he  leaned  while  glancing  at  the  road  that  ran 
beneath.  This  road  descended  between  two  steep  cliffs,  and 
looked  almost  as  though  it  had  been  hewn  out  of  the  solid 
rock  to  afford  a  resting-place  for  the  twenty  or  thirty  hovels 
of  which  Bonneville  consisted.  Every  tide  threatened  to  hurl 
the  houses  from  their  narrow  shingle -strewn  anchorage  and 
crush  them  against  the  rocky  cliff.  To  the  left  there  was  a 
little  landing-place,  a  mere  strip  of  sand,  whither  amid 
rhythmic  calls  men  hoisted  up  some  half-score  boats.  The 
inhabitants  did  not  number  more  than  a  couple  of  hundred 
souls.  They  made  a  bare  living  out  of  the  sea,  clinging  to 
their  native  rocks  with  all  the  unreasoning  persistence  of 
limpets.  And  on  the  cliffs  above  their  miserable  roofs, 
which  every  winter  were  battered  by  the  storms,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  except  the  church,  standing  about  half- 
way up  on  the  right,  and  the  Chanteaus'  house  across  the 
cleft  on  the  other  hand.  Bonneville  contained  nothing  more. 

'  What  dreadful  weather  it  is  1 '  cried  a  voice. 

Chanteau  raised  his  head  and  recognised  the  priest,  Abb6 
Horteur,  a  thick- set  man  of  peasant-like  build,  whose  red 
hair  was  still  unsilvered  by  his  fifty  years.  He  used  a  plot 
of  graveyard  land  in  front  of  the  church  as  a  vegetable 
garden,  and  was  now  examining  his  early  salad  plants,  tucking 
his  cassock  the  while  between  his  legs  in  order  to  prevent  the 
wind  from  blowing  it  over  his  head.  Chanteau,  who  could 
not  make  himself  heard  amidst  the  roaring  of  the  gale, 
contented  himself  with  waving  his  hand. 

'  They  are  doing  right  in  getting  their  boats  up,  I  think,' 
shouted  the  priest. 

But  just  then  a  gust  of  wind  caught  hold  of  his  cassock 
and  wrapt  it  round  his  head,  so  he  fled  for  refuge  behind  the 
church. 

Chanteau  turned  round  to  escape  the  violence  of  the  blast. 
With  his  eyes  streaming  with  moisture  he  cast  a  glance  at 
his  garden,  over  which  the  spray  was  sweeping,  and  the  brick- 
built  two-storeyed  house  with  five  windows,  whose  shutters 
seemed  in  imminent  danger  of  being  torn  away  from  their 
fastenings.  When  the  sudden  squall  had  subsided,  he  bent 
down  again  to  look  at  the  road ;  and  just  at  that  moment 
V6ronique  returned.  She  shook  her  hands  at  him. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  5 

1  What !  you  have  actually  come  out ! Be  good  enough 

to  go  into  the  house  again  at  once,  sir ! ' 

She  caught  him  up  in  the  passage,  and  scolded  him  like 
a  child  detected  in  wrong-doing.  Wouldn't  she  have  all  the 
trouble  of  looking  after  him  in  the  morning  when  he  suffered 
agonies  of  pain  from  his  indiscretion  ? 

'  Have  you  seen  nothing  of  them  ? '  he  asked,  submis- 
sively. 

'  No,  indeed,  I  have  seen  nothing Madame  is  no  doubt 

taking  shelter  somewhere.' 

He  dared  not  tell  her  that  she  should  have  gone  further 
on.  However,  he  was  now  beginning  to  feel  especially 
anxious  about  his  son. 

'  I  saw  that  all  the  neighbourhood  was  being  blown  into 
the  air,'  continued  the  cook.  '  They  are  quite  afraid  of  being 
done  for  this  time.  Last  September  the  Ouches'  house  was 
cracked  from  top  to  bottom,  and  Prouane,  who  was  going  up 
to  the  church  to  ring  the  Angelus,  has  just  told  me  that  he 
is  sure  it  will  topple  over  before  morning.' 

Just  as  she  spoke  a  big  lad  of  nineteen  sprang  up  the 
three  steps  before  the  door.  He  had  a  spreading  brow  and 
sparkling  eyes,  and  a  fine  chestnut  down  fringed  his  long  oval 
face. 

'  Ah  !  here's  Lazare  at  last  I '  said  Chanteau,  feeling  much 
relieved.  '  How  wet  you  are,  my  poor  boy  I ' 

In  the  passage  the  young  man  hung  his  hooded  cloak, 
which  was  quite  saturated  with  sea-water. 

'  Well  ? '  interrogated  his  father. 

'  I  can  see  nothing  of  them,'  replied  Lazare.  '  I  have 
been  as  far  as  Verchemont,  and  waited  under  the  shed  at  the 
inn  there,  and  kept  my  eyes  on  the  road,  which  is  a  river  of 
mud.  But  I  could  see  no  sigct  of  them.  Then,  as  I  began 
to  feel  afraid  that  you  might  get  uneasy  about  me,  I  came 
back.' 

The  previous  August  Lazare  had  left  the  College  of  Caen, 
after  gaining  his  Bachelor's  degree ;  and  for  the  last  eight 
months  he  had  been  roaming  about  the  cliffs,  unable  to  make 
any  choice  of  a  profession,  for  he  only  felt  enthusiastic  about 
music,  a  predisposition  which  distressed  his  mother  extremely. 
She  had  gone  away  very  much  displeased  with  him,  as  he 
had  refused  to  accompany  her  to  Paris,  where  she  had 
thought  she  might  be  able  to  place  him  in  some  advantageous 
position. 


6  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

*  Now  that  I  have  let  you  know  I  am  all  right,'  the  young 
man  resumed,  '  I  should  like  to  go  on  to  Arromanches.' 

'  No,  no  I  it  is  getting  late,'  said  Chanteau.  '  We  shall 
be  having  some  news  of  your  mother  presently.  I  am 
expecting  a  message  every  moment.  Listen  1  Isn't  that  a 
carriage  ? ' 

Ve"ronique  had  gone  to  open  the  door. 

'  It  is  Doctor  Cazenove's  gig,'  she  said.  '  Shall  I  bring 
him  in,  sir  ?  Why  !  good  gracious  I  there's  madame  in 
it!' 

They  all  three  hurried  down  the  steps.  A  huge  dog,  a 
cross  between  a  sheep-dog  and  a  Newfoundland,  who  had  been 
lying  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  passage,  sprang  forward  and 
began  to  bark  furiously.  Upon  hearing  this  barking,  a  small 
white  cat  of  delicate  aspect  made  its  way  to  the  door,  but,  at  the 
sight  of  the  wet  and  dirt  outside,  it  gave  a  slight  wriggle  of 
disgust  with  its  tail,  and  sat  down  very  sedately  on  the  top 
step  to  see  what  was  going  to  happen. 

A  lady  about  fifty  years  of  age  sprang  from  the  gig  with 
all  the  agility  of  a  young  girl.  She  was  short  and  slight,  her 
hair  was  still  perfectly  black,  and  her  face  would  have  been 
quite  pleasant  but  for  the  largeness  of  her  nose.  The  dog 
sprang  forward  and  placed  his  big  paws  on  her  shoulders,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  kiss  her ;  but  this  displeased  her. 

'Down!  down!  Matthew.  Get  away,  will  you?  Tiresome 
annual ! ' 

Lazare  ran  across  the  yard  behind  the  dog,  calling  as  he 
went,  '  All  right,  mother  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes  ! '  replied  Madame  Chanteau. 

'  We  have  been  very  anxious  about  you,'  said  Chanteau> 
who  had  followed  his  son,  in  spite  of  the  wind.  '  What  has 
happened  to  make  you  so  late  ?  ' 

'  Oh  1  we've  had  nothing  but  troubles,'  she  answered.  '  To 
begin  with,  the  roads  are  so  bad  that  it  has  taken  us  nearly  two 
hours  to  come  from  Bayeux.  Then,  at  Arromanches,  one  of 
Malivoire's  horses  went  lame  and  he  couldn't  let  us  have 
another.  At  one  time  I  really  thought  we  should  have  to 
stay  with  him  all  night.  But  the  Doctor  was  kind  enough  to 
offer  us  his  gig,  and  Martin  here  has  driven  us  home.' 

The  driver,  an  old  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  who  had 
formerly  served  in  the  navy,  and  had  there  had  his  limb 
amputated  by  Cazenove,  then  a  naval  surgeon,  had  after- 
wards taken  service  under  the  Doctor.  He  was  tethering  the 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  7 

horse  when  Madame  Chanteau  suddenly  checked  her  flow  of 
speech  and  called  to  him  : 

'  Martin  1  help  the  little  girl  to  get  down  1 ' 

No  one  had  yet  given  a  thought  to  the  child.  The  hood 
of  the  gig  fell  very  low,  and  only  her  black  skirt  and  little 
black-gloved  hands  could  be  seen.  She  did  not  wait,  how- 
ever, for  the  coachman's  assistance,  but  sprang  lightly  to  the 
ground.  Just  then  there  came  a  fierce  puff  of  wind,  which 
whirled  her  clothes  about  her  and  sent  the  curls  of  her 
dark  brown  hair  flying  from  under  her  crape-trimmed  hat. 
She  did  not  seem  very  strong  for  her  ten  years.  Her  lips 
were  thick ;  and  her  face,  if  full,  showed  the  pallor  of  the 
girls  who  are  brought  up  in  the  back  shops  of  Paris.  The 
others  stared  at  her.  Veronique,  who  had  just  bustled  up  to 
welcome  her  mistress,  checked  herself,  her  face  assuming  an 
icy  and  jealous  expression.  But  Matthew  showed  none  of 
this  reserve.  He  sprang  up  between  the  child's  arms  and 
licked  her  with  his  tongue. 

'  Don't  be  afraid  of  him  1 '  cried  Madame  Chanteau.  '  He 
won't  hurt  you.' 

'  Oh  I  I'm  not  at  all  afraid  of  him,'  said  Pauline  quietly  ; 
1 1  am  very  fond  of  dogs.' 

Indeed,  Matthew's  boisterous  welcome  did  not  seem  to 
disturb  her  in  the  slightest  degree.  Her  grave  little  face  broke 
out  into  a  smile  beneath  her  black  hat,  and  she  affectionately 
kissed  the  dog  on  his  snout. 

'  Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  your  relations  too  ?  '  exclaimed 
Madame  Chanteau.  '  See,  this  is  your  uncle,  since  you  call 
me  your  aunt ;  and  this  is  your  cousin,  a  great  strapping 
scapegrace,  who  isn't  half  as  well  behaved  as  you  are.' 

The  child  manifested  no  awkward  shyness.  She  kissed 
everyone,  and  even  found  a  word  or  two  for  each,  with  all  the 
grace  of  a  young  Parisienne  already  schooled  in  politeness. 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  uncle,  for  taking  me  to 

live  with  you You  will  see  that  we  shall  get  on  very  well 

together,  cousin ' 

'  What  a  sweet  little  thing  she  is ! '  cried  Chanteau,  quite 
delighted. 

Lazare  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  for  he  had  pictured  her 
as  being  much  smaller  and  far  more  shy  and  childish 

1  Yes,  indeed,  she  is  a  sweet  child,'  said  the  lady,  c  and 
you  have  no  idea  how  brave  she  is  !  The  wind  blew  straight 
in  our  faces  as  we  drove  along,  and  the  rain  quite  blinded  us. 


8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Fully  a  score  of  times  I  thought  that  the  hood,  which  was 
flapping  about  like  a  veil,  would  be  carried  away  altogether. 
Well,  that  child  there,  instead  of  being  alarmed,  was  quite 
amused  by  it  all  and  enjoyed  it.  But  what  are  we  stopping 
out  here  for  ?  It  is  no  use  getting  any  wetter  than  we  are ; 
the  rain  is  beginning  to  fall  again.' 

She  turned  round  to  see  where  Ve'ronique  was.  When  she 
saw  her  keeping  aloof  and  looking  very  surly,  she  said  to  her 
sarcastically : 

'  Good  evening,  Ve'ronique.  How  are  you  ?  While  you 
are  making  up  your  mind  to  come  and  speak  to  me,  you  had 
better  go  and  get  a  bottle  of  wine  for  Martin.  We  have  not 
been  able  to  bring  our  luggage  with  us,  but  Malivoire  will 
bring  it  on  early  to-morrow.' 

Then  she  suddenly  checked  herself  and  hastily  returned 
to  the  gig.  '  My  bag  I  my  bag !  Ah,  there  it  is  1  I  was 
afraid  it  had  slipped  into  the  road.' 

It  was  a  large  black  leather  bag,  already  whitened  at  the 
corners  by  wear.  She  would  not  trust  it  to  her  son,  but  per- 
sisted in  carrying  it  herself.  Just  as  they  were  at  last  about 
to  enter  the  house,  another  violent  squall  made  them  halt, 
short  of  breath,  near  the  door.  The  cat,  sitting  on  the  steps 
with  an  air  of  curiosity,  watched  them  fighting  their  way 
onwards  ;  and  Madame  Ohanteau  then  inquired  if  Minouche 
had  behaved  properly  during  her  absence.  The  name  of 
Minouche  again  brought  a  smile  to  Pauline's  serious  little  face. 
She  stooped  down  and  fondled  the  cat,  which  rubbed  itself 
against  her  skirts,  whilst  holding  its  tail  erect  in  the  air. 
Matthew  for  his  part,  in  proclamation  of  the  return,  began 
to  bark  again  as  he  saw  the  family  mounting  the  steps  and 
entering  the  vestibule. 

1  Ah,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  home  again  I '  said  Madame 
Chanteau.  '  I  really  thought  that  we  should  never  get  here. 
Yes,  Matthew,  you  are  a  very  good  dog,  but  please  be  quiet — 
Lazare,  do  make  him  keep  still.  He  is  quite  splitting  my 
ears  1 ' 

However,  the  dog  proved  obstinate,  and  the  entry  of  the 
Chanteaus  into  their  dining-room  was  accompanied  by  this 
lively  music.  They  pushed  Pauline,  the  new  daughter  of  the 
house,  before  them ;  Matthew  came  on  behind,  still  barking 
loudly;  and  Minouche  followed  last,  with  her  sensitive  hair 
bristling  amidst  the  uproar. 

In  the  kitchen  Martin   had  already  drunk  a  couple  of 


glasses  of  wine,  one  after  the  other,  and  was  now  hastening 
away,  stamping  over  the  floor  with  his  wooden  leg  and  calling 
'  good-night '  to  everybody.  Ve"ronique  had  just  put  the  leg  of 
mutton  to  the  fire  again,  as  it  had  got  quite  cold.  She  thrust 
her  head  into  the  room,  and  asked  : 

'  Will  you  have  dinner  now  ? ' 

'Yes,  indeed  we  will, 'said  Chanteau.  'It  is  seven  o'clock. 
But,  my  good  girl,  we  must  wait  till  madame  and  the  little 
one  have  changed  their  things.' 

'But  I  haven't  got  Pauline's  trunk  here,1  said  Madame 
Chanteau.  '  Fortunately,  however,  our  underclothing  is  not 
wet.  Take  off  your  cloak  and  hat,  my  dear.  There,  take 
them  away,  Ve"ronique.  And  take  off  her  boots.  I  have 
some  slippers  here.' 

The  cook  knelt  down  before  the  child,  who  had  seated  her- 
self. Madame  Chanteau  took  out  of  her  bag  a  pair  of  small 
felt  slippers  and  put  them  on  the  girl's  feet.  Then  she  took 
off  her  own  boots,  and,  once  more  dipping  her  hand  into  the 
bag,  brought  out  a  pair  of  shoes  for  herself. 

'  Shall  I  bring  dinner  in  now  ?  '  asked  Ve"ronique  again. 

'  In  a  minute.  Pauline,  come  into  the  kitchen  and  wash 
your  hands  and  face.  We  will  make  more  of  a  toilet  later 
on,  for,  just  now,  we  are  dying  of  hunger.1 

Pauline  came  back  first,  having  left  her  aunt  with  her 
nose  in  a  bowl  of  water.  Chanteau  had  resumed  his  place 
in  his  big  yellow  velvet  armchair  before  the  fire.  He  was 
rubbing  his  legs  mechanically,  fearing  another  attack  of  pain ; 
while  Lazare  stood  cutting  some  bread  in  front  of  the  table, 
on  which  four  covers  had  been  laid  more  than  an  hour  before. 
The  two  men,  who  were  scarcely  at  their  ease,  smiled  at  the 
child,  without  managing  to  find  a  word  to  say  to  her ;  while 
she  calmly  inspected  the  room,  which  was  furnished  in 
walnut- wood.  Her  glance  wandered  from  the  sideboard  and 
the  half-dozen  chairs  to  the  hanging  lamp  of  polished  brass, 
and  then  rested  upon  some  framed  lithographs  which  hung 
against  the  brown  wall-paper.  Four  of  them  represented  the 
seasons,  and  the  fifth  was  a  view  of  Vesuvius.  Probably 
the  imitation  wainscotting  of  oak-coloured  paint,  scratched 
and  showing  the  plaster  underneath,  the  flooring  soiled  with 
old  grease-spots,  and  the  general  shabbiness  of  this  room, 
where  the  family  lived,  made  her  regret  the  beautiful  marble- 
fitted  shop  which  she  had  left  the  previous  day,  for  her  eyea 
assumed  an  expression  of  sadness,  and  she  seemed  to  guess 


io  THE  /OY  OF  LIFE 

all  the  cares  that  lay  concealed  in  this  her  new  dwelling- 
place.  Then,  after  curiously  examining  a  very  old  barometer 
mounted  in  a  case  of  gilded  wood,  her  eyes  turned  to  a 
strange-looking  affair  which  monopolised  the  whole  of  the 
mantelpiece.  It  was  enclosed  in  a  glass  box,  secured  at  the 
edges  by  strips  of  blue  paper.  At  first  sight  it  looked  like  a 
toy,  a  miniature  wooden  bridge ;  but  a  bridge  of  extremely 
intricate  design. 

'  That  was  made  by  your  great-uncle,'  explained  Chanteau, 
who  was  delighted  to  find  a  subject  of  conversation.  '  My 
father,  you  know,  began  life  as  a  carpenter,  and  I  have 
always  preserved  his  masterpiece.' 

He  was  not  at  all  ashamed  of  his  origin,  and  Madame 
Chanteau  tolerated  the  presence  of  the  bridge  on  the  mantel- 
piece, in  spite  of  the  displeasure  which  this  cumbersome 
curiosity  always  caused  her  by  reminding  her  of  her  marriage 
with  a  working-man's  son.  But  the  little  girl  was  no  longer 
paying  attention  to  her  uncle's  words,  for  through  the  window 
she  had  just  caught  sight  of  the  far-reaching  horizon,  and 
she  eagerly  stepped  forward  and  planted  herself  close  to  the 
panes,  whose  muslin  curtains  were  held  back  by  cotton  loops. 
Since  her  departure  from  Paris  her  one  continual  thought 
had  been  the  sea.  She  had  dreamed  of  it  and  never  ceased 
to  question  her  aunt  about  it  during  their  journey ;  inquiring 
at  every  hill  they  came  to  whether  the  sea  lay  at  the  other  side 
of  it.  When  at  last  they  reached  the  beach  at  Arromanches, 
she  had  been  struck  silent  with  wonder,  her  eyes  dilating  and 
her  heart  heaving  with  a  heavy  sigh.  From  Arromanches  ti 
Bonneville  she  had  every  minute  thrust  her  head  out  of  the 
gig's  hood,  in  spite  of  the  violent  wind,  in  order  to  look  at  the 
sea,  which  seemed  to  follow  them.  And  now  the  sea  was  still 
there;  it  would  always  be  there,  as  though  it  belonged  to 
her.  With  her  eyes  she  seemed  to  be  slowly  taking  possession 
of  it. 

The  night  was  falling  from  the  grey  sky,  across  which 
the  wind  drove  the  clouds  at  headlong  speed.  Amid  the  in- 
creasing darkness  of  that  turbulent  evening  only  the  white 
line  of  the  rising  tide  could  be  distinguished.  It  was  a  band 
of  foam,  which  seemed  to  be  ever  widening,  a  succession  of 
waves  flowing  up,  pouring  over  the  tracts  of  weed  and  cover- 
ing the  ridges  of  rock  with  a  soft  gliding  motion,  whose 
approach  seemed  like  a  caress.  But  far  away  the  roar  of  the 
billows  increased,  huge  crests  arose,  while  at  the  foot  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  n 

the  cliff,  where  Bonneville  had  stowed  itself  away  as  securely 
as  possible  behind  its  doors,  there  hovered  a  death-like  gloom. 
The  boats,  drawn  up  to  the  top  of  the  shingle,  lay  there,  alone 
and  deserted,  like  huge  stranded  fish.  The  rain  steeped  the 
village  in  vaporous  mist,  and  only  the  church  still  stood  out 
plainly  against  a  pale  patch  of  sky. 

Pauline  stood  by  the  window  in  silence.  Her  little  heart 
was  heaving  anew.  She  seemed  to  be  stifling,  and  as  she  drew 
a  deep  sigh  all  her  breath  appeared  to  drain  from  her  lips. 

'  Well !  it's  a  good  deal  bigger  than  the  Seine,  isn't  it  ?  ' 
said  Lazare,  who  had  just  taken  his  stand  behind  her. 

The  girl  continued  to  be  a  source  of  much  surprise  to 
him  ;  he  felt  all  the  shy  awkwardness  of  a  schoolboy  in  her 
presence. 

'  Yes,  indeed,'  she  replied,  in  a  very  low  voice,  without 
turning  her  head. 

'  You  are  not  frightened  of  it  ?  ' 

At  this  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  an  expression 
of  astonishment.  '  No,  indeed.  Why  should  I  be  ?  The 
water  won't  come  up  so  far  as  this  ! 

'  Ah !  one  never  knows  what  it  will  do,1  he  said,  yielding  to 
an  impulse  to  make  fun  of  her.  *  Sometimes  the  water  rises 
over  the  church.' 

She  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh,  an  outburst  of  noisy, 
healthy  gaiety,  the  merriment  of  a  sensible  person  whom  the 
absurd  delights. 

'  Ah  !  cousin,'  said  she,  playfully  taking  the  young  man's 
hand,  '  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  you  think.  You  wouldn't  stop 
here  if  the  sea  were  likely  to  come  up  over  the  church.' 

Lazare  laughed  in  his  turn,  and  clasped  the  child's  hands. 
The  pair  were  henceforth  hearty  friends.  In  the  midst  of 
their  merriment  Madame  Chanteau  returned  into  the  room. 
She  appeared  quite  delighted,  and  exclaimed  as  she  rubbed 
her  hands  :  '  Ah  !  you  have  got  to  know  each  other,  then  ? — 
I  felt  quite  sure  you  would  get  on  well  together.' 

'  Shall  I  bring  in  dinner,  Madame  ? '  asked  Veronique, 
standing  by  the  kitchen  door. 

'  Yes,  certainly,  my  girl.  But  you  had  better  light  the 
lamp  first ;  it  is  getting  too  dark  to  see.' 

The  night,  indeed,  was  falling  so  quickly  that  the  dining- 
room  would  have  been  in  darkness  but  for  the  red  glow  of  the 
coke  fire.  Lighting  the  lamp  caused  a  further  delay,  but  at 
last  the  operation  was  satisfactorily  performed,  and  the  table 


12  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

lay  illuminated  beneath  the  lowered  shade.  They  were  all 
in  their  places,  Pauline  between  her  uncle  and  cousin,  and 
opposite  her  aunt,  when  the  latter  rose  from  her  chair 
again,  with  that  restlessness  of  one  who  can  never  remain 
still. 

'Where  is  my  bag?  Wait  a  moment,  my  dear;  I  am 
going  to  give  you  your  mug.  Take  the  glass  away,  Veronique. 
The  little  girl  is  used  to  having  her  own  mug.' 

She  took  a  silver  mug,  already  a  little  battered,  out  of  her 
bag,  and,  having  first  wiped  it  with  her  napkin,  placed  it 
before  Pauline.  Then  she  put  the  bag  away  behind  her,  on  a 
chair.  The  cook  brought  in  some  vermicelli  soup,  warning 
them,  in  her  crabbed  fashion,  that  it  was  much  overcooked. 
No  one  dared  complain,  however.  They  were  all  very  hungry, 
and  the  soup  hissed  in  their  spoons.  Next  came  some  soup- 
beef.  Chanteau,  fond  of  dainties,  scarcely  took  any  of  it, 
reserving  himself  for  the  leg  of  mutton.  But  when  this  was 
placed  upon  the  table  there  was  a  general  outcry.  It  was 
like  fried  leather ;  surely  they  could  not  eat  it ! 

'  I  knew  very  well  how  it  would  be,'  said  Veronique, 
placidly.  '  You  oughtn't  to  have  kept  it  waiting.' 

Pauline,  with  a  laugh,  cut  her  meat  up  into  little  bits,  and 
managed  to  swallow  it,  in  spite  of  its  toughness.  As  for 
Lazare,  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  what  he  had  upon  his 
plate,  and  would  have  eaten  slices  of  dry  bread  without 
knowing  that  they  were  not  cut  from  a  fowl's  breast.  Chan- 
teau, however,  gazed  at  the  leg  of  mutton  with  a  mournful 
expression. 

'  And  what  else  have  you  got,  Ve'ronique  ? ' 

'  Fried  potatoes,  sir.' 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair  and  threw  himself  back  in 
his  chair. 

'  Shall  I  bring  the  beef  back  again,  sir  ?  '  asked  the  cook. 

But  he  answered  her  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  his  head. 
'  As  well  have  bread  as  boiled  beef.  Oh,  my  gracious  1  what 
a  dinner !  and  just  in  this  bad  weather,  too,  when  we  can't 
get  any  fish.' 

Madame  Chanteau,  who  was  a  very  small  eater,  looked  at 
him  compassionately. 

'  My  poor  dear,'  she  said,  suddenly,  '  you  quite  distress 
me.  I  have  brought  a  little  present  with  me ;  I  meant 
it  for  to-morrow,  but  as  there  seems  to  be  a  famine  this 
evr  mng ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  13 

She  had  opened  her  bag  as  she  spoke  and  drew  out  of  it  a 
pan  of  foie  gras.  Chanteau's  eyes  flashed  brightly.  Foie  gras ! 
Ah,  it  was  forbidden  fruit !  A  luxury  which  he  adored,  but 
which  his  doctor  had  absolutely  forbidden  him  to  touch. 

'You  know,'  continued  his  wife,  'you  must  have  only 
a  very  little.  Don't  be  foolish,  now,  or  you  shall  never  have 
any  more.' 

Chanteau  had  caught  hold  of  the  pan,  and  he  began  to 
open  it  with  trembling  hands.  There  were  frequently  tremen- 
dous struggles  between  his  greediness  and  his  fear  of  gout ;  and 
almost  invariably  it  was  his  greediness  that  got  the  upper 
hand.  Never  mind  1  it  was  too  good  to  resist,  and  he  would 
put  up  with  the  pain  that  would  follow. 

V6ronique,  who  had  watched  him  helping  himself  to  a 
thick  slice,  took  herself  off  to  the  kitchen,  grumbling  as  she 
went : 

1  Well,  well !  how  he  will  bellow  to-morrow  ! ' 

The  word  '  bellow  '  was  habitually  on  her  tongue,  and  her 
master  and  mistress  had  grown  quite  used  and  reconciled  to  it, 
so  naturally  and  simply  did  it  come  from  her  lips.  When 
the  master  had  an  attack  of  gout  he  bellowed,  according  to 
Ve"ronique,  and  she  was  never  scolded  for  her  want  of  respect 
in  saying  so.  The  dinner  ended  very  merrily.  Lazare 
jokingly  dispossessed  his  father  of  the  foie  gras.  When  the 
cheese  and  biscuits  were  put  upon  the  table,  Matthew's 
sudden  appearance  caused  a  boisterous  commotion.  Until 
then  he  had  been  lying  asleep  under  the  table.  But  the 
arrival  of  the  biscuits  had  awakened  him.  He  seemed  to 
have  scented  them  in  his  sleep.  Every  evening,  just  at  this 
stage  of  the  meal,  it  was  his  custom  to  get  up  and  shake  him- 
self and  make  the  round  of  the  table,  questioning  the  faces  of 
the  diners  to  see  if  they  were  charitably  disposed.  Usually  it 
was  Lazare  who  first  took  pity  upon  him,  but  that  evening 
Matthew,  on  his  second  circuit  of  the  table,  halted  by 
Pauline's  side  and  gazed  up  at  her  earnestly  with  his  honest 
human-like  eyes  ;  and  then,  divining  in  her  a  friend  both  of 
man  and  beast,  he  laid  his  huge  head  on  her  little  knee,  with- 
out dropping  his  glance  of  mild  supplication. 

'  Oh,  what  a  shameful  beggar  you  are ! '  said  Madame 
Chanteau.  '  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Matthew,  to  be 
so  greedy  ? ' 

The  dog  swallowed  at  a  single  gulp  the  piece  of  biscuit 
which  Pauline  offered  him,  and  then  again  laid  his  head  on 


14  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

her  little  knee,  asking  for  another  piece,  with  his  eyes  con- 
stantly fixed  on  those  of  his  new  friend.  She  laughed  at 
him  and  kissed  him  and  found  him  very  amusing,  with  his 
flattened  ears  and  the  black  spot  under  his  left  eye,  the  only 
spot  of  colour  that  marked  his  rough  white  hairy  coat.  Then 
there  came  a  diversion  of  another  character.  Minouche, 
growing  jealous,  leapt  lightly  upon  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
began  to  purr  and  rub  her  head  against  the  little  girl's  chin, 
swaying  her  supple  body  the  while  with  all  the  grace  of  a 
young  kid.  To  poke  one  with  her  cold  nose  and  kiss  one 
lightly  with  her  sharp  teeth,  while  she  pounded  about  with 
her  feet  like  a  baker  kneading  dough,  was  her  feline  way  of 
caressing.  Pauline  was  now  quite  delighted  between  the 
two  animals.  The  cat  on  her  left,  the  dog  on  her  right,  took 
possession  of  her  and  worried  her  shamefully  in  order  to 
secure  all  her  biscuits. 

'  Send  them  away,'  said  her  aunt.  '  They  will  leave  you 
nothing  for  yourself.' 

'  Oh  1  that  doesn't  matter,'  she  placidly  replied,  feeling 
quite  happy  in  being  despoiled. 

They  finished,  and  Veronique  removed  the  dishes.  The 
two  animals,  seeing  the  table  quite  bare,  gave  their  lips  a  last 
lick  and  then  took  themselves  off,  without  even  saying  'thank 
you.' 

Pauline  rose  from  her  chair,  and  went  to  stand  by  the 
window,  straining  her  eyes  to  penetrate  the  darkness.  Ever 
since  the  soup  had  been  put  upon  the  table  she  had  been 
watching  the  window  grow  darker  and  darker,  till  it  had 
gradually  become  as  black  as  ink.  Now  it  was  like  an 
impenetrable  wall ;  the  dense  darkness  had  hidden  every- 
thing— sky,  sea,  village,  and  even  church  itself.  Nevertheless, 
without  feeling  in  the  least  disturbed  by  her  cousin's  jests, 
she  tried  to  distinguish  the  water,  worrying  to  find  out  how 
far  the  tide  was  going  to  rise ;  but  she  could  only  hear  its 
ever-increasing  roar,  its  angry  threatening  voice,  which 
seemed  to  grow  louder  every  minute  amidst  the  howling  of 
the  wind  and  the  splashing  of  the  rain.  Not  a  glimmer,  not 
even  the  whiteness  of  the  foam,  could  be  seen  in  that  chaos ; 
and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  rush  of  the  waves,  lashed  on 
by  the  gale  in  the  black  depths. 

'  Dear  me,'  said  Chanteau,  '  it  is  coming  up  stiffly,  and  yet 
it  won't  be  high-water  for  another  couple  of  hours." 

If  the  wind  were  to  blow  from  the  north,'  put  in  Lazare, 


THE  JOV  OF  LIFE  15 

'Bonneville  would  certainly  be  swept  away.  Fortunately 
for  us  here,  it  is  coming  slantwise.' 

The  little  maid  had  turned  and  was  listening  to  them,  her 
big  eyes  full  of  an  expression  of  anxious  pity. 

'  Bah ! '  said  Madame  Chanteau, '  we  are  safe  under  shelter, 
and  we  must  let  other  folks  get  out  of  their  trouble  as  best 

they  may Tell  me,  my  dear,  would  you  like  a  cup  of  hot 

tea  ?  And  then,  afterwards,  we  will  go  to  bed.' 

Veronique  had  laid  an  old  red  cloth,  with  a  faded  pattern 
of  big  bunches  of  flowers,  over  the  dinner-table,  around 
which  the  family  generally  spent  the  evening.  They  took 
their  accustomed  places.  Lazare,  who  had  left  the  room  for 
a  moment,  came  back  carrying  an  inkstand,  a  pen,  and  a 
whole  handful  of  papers,  and,  seating  himself  beneath  the 
lamp-light,  he  began  to  copy  some  music.  Madame  Chanteau, 
whose  eyes  since  her  return  had  never  ceased  following  her 
son  with  an  affectionate  glance,  suddenly  became  very  stiff 
and  surly. 

'  That  music  of  yours  again !  You  can't  devote  an 
evening  to  us,  then,  even  on  the  night  of  my  return  home  ? ' 

'  But,  mother,  I  am  not  going  out  of  the  room.  I  mean 
to  stay  with  you.  You  know  very  well  that  this  doesn't 
interfere  with  my  talking.  Fire  away  and  talk  to  me,  and  I 
will  answer  you.' 

He  went  on  with  his  work,  covering  half  the  table  with 
his  papers.  Chanteau  had  stretched  himself  out  comfort- 
ably in  his  armchair,  with  his  hands  hanging  listlessly  at 
his  sides.  In  front  of  the  fire  Matthew  lay  asleep,  while 
Minouche,  who  had  sprung  upon  the  table  again,  was  per- 
forming an  elaborate  toilet,  carefully  licking  her  stomach, 
with  one  leg  cocked  up  in  the  air.  The  falling  light  from  the 
hanging  lamp  seemed  to  make  everything  cosy  and  homelike, 
and  Pauline,  who  with  half-closed  eyelids  had  been  smiling 
upon  her  newly-found  relatives,  could  no  longer  keep  herself 
from  sleep,  worn  out  as  she  was  with  fatigue  and  rendered 
drowsy  by  the  heat  of  the  room.  Her  head  slipped  down 
upon  her  arm,  which  was  resting  on  the  table,  and  lay  there, 
motionless,  beneath  the  placid  glow  of  the  lamp.  Her  delicate 
eyelids  looked  like  a  silk  veil  cast  over  her  eyes,  and  soft 
regular  breath  came  gently  from  her  pure  lips. 

'  She  must  be  tired  out,'  said  Madame  Chanteau,  lowering 
her  voice.  '  We  will  just  wake  her  up  to  give  her  some  tea, 
and  then  I  will  take  her  to  bed.' 


1 6  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

Then  silence  reigned  in  the  room.  No  sound  broke  upon 
the  howling  of  the  storm  except  the  scratching  of  Lazare's 
pen.  It  was  perfect  quiet,  the  habitual  sleepiness  of  life 
spent  every  evening  in  the  same  spot.  For  a  long  time  the 
father  and  mother  looked  at  each  other  without  saying  a 
word.  At  last  Chanteau  asked,  in  a  hesitating  voice : 

'  And  is  Davoine  doing  well  at  Caen  ? ' 

'  Bah  1  Doing  well,  indeed  !  I  told  you  that  you  were 
being  taken  in  ! ' 

Now  that  the  child  was  fast  asleep  they  could  talk.  They 
spoke  in  low  tones,  however,  and  at  first  seemed  inclined  to 
tell  each  other  what  there  was  to  be  told  as  briefly  as  possible. 
But  presently  passion  got  the  better  of  them  and  carried 
them  on,  and,  by  degrees,  all  the  worries  of  the  household 
became  manifest. 

At  the  death  of  his  father  the  former  journeyman  car- 
penter, who  had  carried  on  his  timber-trade  with  ambitious 
audacity,  Chanteau  had  found  the  business  considerably 
compromised.  A  very  inactive  man  himself,  unaspiring  and 
careful,  he  had  contented  himself  with  simply  putting  matters 
on  a  safe  basis,  by  dint  of  good  management,  and  living  upon 
a  moderate  but  sure  profit.  The  one  romance  of  his  life  was 
his  marriage.  He  had  married  a  governess  whom  he  had 
met  in  a  friend's  family.  Eugenie  de  la  Vigniere,  the  orphan 
daughter  of  one  of  the  ruined  squireens  of  the  Cotentin, 
reckoned  upon  fanning  his  indolent  nature  into  ambition. 
But  he  with  his  imperfect  education,  for  he  had  been  sent 
late  to  school,  recoiled  from  vast  schemes,  and  opposed  his 
own  natural  inertness  to  the  ambitious  plans  of  his  wife. 
When  their  son  was  born,  she  transferred  to  that  child  her 
hopes  for  the  family's  rise  in  life,  sent  him  to  college,  and 
superintended  his  studies  every  evening  herself.  But  a  last 
disaster  upset  all  her  plans.  Chanteau,  who  had  suffered 
from  gout  from  the  time  he  was  forty  years  of  age,  at 
last  experienced  such  severe  and  painful  attacks  that  he 
began  to  talk  about  selling  his  business.  To  Madame  Chan- 
teau this  portended  straitened  means  and  mediocrity,  the 
spending  of  their  remaining  days  in  retirement  on  their  petty 
savings,  and  the  casting  of  her  son  into  the  struggle  for  life, 
without  the  support  of  an  income  of  twenty  thousand  francs, 
such  as  she  had  dreamed  of  for  him. 

Thereupon  she  had  insisted  upon  having,  at  any  rate,  a 
hand  in  the  sale.  The  profits  were  about  ten  thousand  francs 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  17 

a  year,  on  which  the  family  made  a  considerable  show,  for 
Madame  Chanteau  was  fond  of  giving  parties.  Having  dis- 
covered a  certain  Davoine,  she  had  worked  out  the  following 
scheme.  Davoine  was  to  buy  the  timber  business  for  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  but  he  was  only  to  pay  fifty 
thousand  in  money ;  in  consideration  of  the  other  fifty 
thousand  remaining  unpaid,  the  Chanteaus  were  to  become 
his  partners  in  the  business  and  share  the  profits.  This  man 
Davoine  appeared  to  be  a  very  bold  fellow,  and,  even  if  he 
did  not  extend  the  business  of  the  firm,  they  would  still  be 
sure  of  five  thousand  francs  a  year,  which,  added  to  the 
interest  of  the  fifty  thousand  invested  in  stock,  would  give 
them  altogether  an  income  of  eight  thousand  francs.1  And 
on  this  they  would  get  on  as  well  as  they  could,  pending  the 
time  when  their  son  should  achieve  some  brilliant  success  and 
be  able  to  extricate  them  from  a  life  of  mediocrity. 

It  was  upon  these  principles  that  the  business  was  sold. 
Two  years  previously  Chanteau  had  bought  a  seaside  house 
at  Bonneville,  which  he  had  been  able  to  get  as  a  bargain 
through  the  bankruptcy  of  an  insolvent  debtor.  Instead  of 
selling  it  again  at  a  profit,  as  for  a  time  she  had  thought  of 
doing,  Madame  Chanteau  determined  that  the  family  should 
go  and  live  there,  at  any  rate  until  Lazare  had  achieved  his 
first  successes.  To  give  up  her  parties  and  bury  herself  in  such 
an  out-of-the-way  place  was  for  her,  indeed,  almost  suicide ; 
but  as  she  had  agreed  to  surrender  their  entire  house  to 
Davoine,  she  would  have  had  to  rent  another,  and  so  she  sum- 
moned up  all  her  resolution  to  go  in  for  a  life  of  economy, 
with  the  firm  hope  of  one  day  making  a  triumphal  return  to 
Caen,  when  her  son  should  have  gained  a  high  position. 
Chanteau  gave  his  consent  to  everything.  His  gout  would 
have  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  sea  air,  and,  besides,  of 
three  doctors  whom  he  had  consulted,  two  had  been  good 
enough  to  declare  that  the  fresh  breezes  from  the  open  would 
act  as  a  splendid  tonic  on  his  system  generally.  So,  one 
morning  in  May,  the  Chanteaus  departed  to  settle  at  Bonne- 
ville, leaving  Lazare,  then  fourteen  years  old,  at  the  college 
at  Caen. 

Since  this  heroic  exile,  five  years  had  passed,  and  the 
affairs  of  the  family  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse.  As  Davoine 
was  constantly  launching  out  into  fresh  speculations,  he  was 

1  £320, 


i8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

ever  telling  them  that  it  was  necessary  he  should  have 
further  advances ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  all  the 
profits  were  risked  again  and  again,  and  the  balance-sheet 
generally  showed  a  loss.  The  Chanteaus  were  reduced  to 
living  at  Bonneville  on  the  three  thousand  francs  a  year 
derived  from  the  money  they  had  invested  in  stock,  and  they 
were  so  hardly  pressed  that  they  had  been  obliged  to  sell  their 
horse,  and  get  Ve"ronique  to  undertake  the  management  of 
the  kitchen  garden. 

'  At  any  rate,  Eugenie,'  said  Chanteau,  a  little  timorously, 
'  if  I  have  been  let  in,  it  is  partly  your  fault.' 

But  she  repudiated  the  responsibility  altogether.  She 
always  conveniently  forgot  that  the  partnership  with  Davoine 
was  her  own  work. 

'  My  fault  indeed  ! '  she  replied  drily.  '  How  can  that  be  ? 
Am  I  laid  up  ?  If  you  were  not  such  an  invalid,  we  might 
perhaps  be  millionaires.' 

Whenever  his  wife  attacked  him  in  this  bitter  fashion,  he 
always  lowered  his  head  with  pain  and  shame  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  his  illness  that  was  ruining  the  family. 

'  We  must  wait  and  be  patient,'  he  murmured.  '  Davoine 
appears  to  be  very  confident  of  the  success  of  his  new 
scheme.  If  the  price  of  deal  goes  up,  we  shall  make  a 
fortune.' 

'  And  what  good  will  that  be  ?  '  interrupted  Lazare,  who 
was  still  copying  out  his  music.  '  We  have  enough  to  eat  as 
it  is.  It  is  very  foolish  of  you  worrying  yourselves  in  this 
way.  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  money.' 

Madame  Chanteau  shrugged  her  shoulders  again. 

1  It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  if  you  cared  about  it  a 
little  more,  and  didn't  waste  your  time  in  foolish  nonsense.' 

It  was  she  herself  who  had  taught  him  to  play  the  piano, 
though  the  mere  sight  of  a  score  now  sufficed  to  make  her 
angry.  Her  last  hope  had  fled.  This  son  of  hers,  whom  she 
had  dreamed  of  seeing  a  prefect  or  a  judge,  talked  of  writing 
operas ;  and  she  foresaw  that  in  the  future  he  would  be 
reduced  to  running  about  the  streets  giving  lessons,  as  she 
herself  had  once  done. 

'  Here  is  the  balance-sheet  for  the  last  three  months,  which 
Davoine  gave  me,'  she  said.  '  If  things  continue  in  this  way, 
it  will  be  we  who  shall  owe  him  money  by  next  July.' 

She  had  put  her  bag  upon  the  table,  and  she  took  out  of  it 
a  paper,  which  she  handed  to  Chanteau.  He  just  turned  it 


THE  JO}    OF  LIFE  19 

round,  and  then  laid  it  down  in  front  of  him  without  opening 
it.  At  that  moment  Veronique  brought  in  the  tea.  No  one 
spoke  for  some  time,  and  the  cups  remained  empty.  Minouche 
was  dozing  placidly  beside  the  sugar-basin,  and  Matthew  was 
snoring  like  a  man  before  the  fire.  The  roar  of  the  sea  con- 
tinued outside  like  a  mighty  bass  accompaniment  to  the 
peaceful  echoes  of  the  drowsy  room. 

'  Won't  you  awaken  her,  mother  ?  '  said  Lazare,  at  last. 
It  can't  be  good  for  her  to  go  on  sleeping  there.' 

'  Yes !  yes  ! '  murmured  Madame  Chanteau,  who  seemed 
buried  in  deep  thought,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Pauline. 

They  all  three  looked  at  the  sleeping  girl.  Her  breathing 
was  very  calm,  and  there  was  a  flowery  softness  about  her 
pale  cheeks  and  rosy  lips  beneath  the  glow  of  the  lamp-light. 
Her  chestnut  curls,  which  the  wind  had  disarranged,  cast 
a  slight  shadow  over  her  delicate  brow.  Then  Madame 
Chanteau's  thoughts  reverted  to  her  visit  to  Paris,  and  all 
the  bother  she  had  met  with  there,  and  she  felt  quite  aston- 
ished at  the  enthusiasm  with  which  she  had  undertaken  the 
child's  guardianship,  .inspired  with  instinctive  regard  for  a 
wealthy  ward,  though  her  intentions  of  course  were  scrupu- 
lously honourable,  and  quite  without  thought  of  benefiting  by 
the  fortune  of  which  she  would  be  trustee. 

'  When  I  alighted  at  the  shop,'  she  began  slowly,  '  she 
was  wearing  a  little  black  frock,  and  she  came  to  kiss  me, 
sobbing  and  crying.  It  is  a  very  fine  shop  indeed ;  beautifully 
fitted  up  with  marble  and  plate-glass,  and  just  in  front  of  the 
markets.  There  was  such  a  servant  there,  about  as  big  as 
a  jackboot,  with  a  fresh  red  face.  It  was  she  who  had  given 
information  to  the  notary,  and  had  brought  him  to  put  every- 
thing under  seal.  When  I  got  there  she  was  going  on  quietly 
selling  sausages  and  black  puddings.  It  was  Adele  who  told 
me  about  our  poor  cousin  Quenu's  death.  Ever  since  he  had 
lost  his  wife,  six  months  previously,  his  blood  seemed  to  be 
suffocating  him.  He  was  constantly  fidgeting  about  his  neck 
with  his  hand  to  loosen  his  neckerchief ;  and  at  last  they  found 
him  one  evening  lying  with  his  face  all  purple  in  a  bowl  of 
dripping.  His  uncle  Gradelle  died  in  just  the  same  way.' 

She  said  no  more,  and  silence  fell  again.  Over  Pauline's 
face,  as  she  lay  asleep,  there  played  a  passing  smile,  suggest- 
ing some  pleasant  dream. 

'  And  the  law  business,  was  that  all  transacted  satisfac- 
torily ? '  asked  Chanteau. 

o  2 


ao  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

1  Oh  1  quite  so.  But  your  lawyer  was  very  right  in  leaving 
a  blank  for  the  name  in  the  power-of-attorney ;  for  it  appears 
that  I  could  not  have  acted  in  your  stead,  as  women  are  not 
eligible  in  such  matters.  But,  as  I  wrote  and  told  you,  on  my 
arrival  I  went  to  consult  the  parish  lawyer  who  sent  us  the 
extract  from  the  will  in  which  you  were  appointed  guardian. 
He  at  once  inserted  his  chief  clerk's  name  in  the  power-of- 
attorney,  which  is  quite  a  common  course,  he  tells  me.  Then 
we  were  able  to  get  along.  I  went  before  a  justice  of  the 
peace  and  nominated  as  members  of  the  family  council  three 
relations  on  Lisa's  side :  two  young  cousins,  Octave  Mouret 
and  Claude  Lantier,  and  a  cousin  by  marriage,  Monsieur 
Rambaud,  who  lives  at  Marseilles  ;  then,  on  our  side,  that  is 
Quenu's  side,  I  chose  his  nephews,  Naudet,  Liardin,  and 
Delorme.  It  is  a  very  proper  council,  you  see,  and  one  which 
we  can  easily  manage  as  we  think  best  for  the  child's  benefit. 
At  their  first  meeting  they  nominated  as  surrogate-guardian 
Monsieur  Saccard,1  whom  I  had  chosen,  out  of  necessity,  from 
among  Lisa's  relations.' 

'  Hush  !  hush  !     She  is  waking  up,'  interrupted  Lazare. 

Pauline  had  just  opened  her  eyes  widely.  Without 
moving,  she  gazed  with  some  astonishment  at  the  people 
talking  around  her,  and  then,  with  a  smile  full  of  sleepiness, 
closed  her  eyes  once  more,  being  worn  out  with  fatigue. 
Again  did  her  motionless  little  face  show  a  milky  camellia- 
like  transparency. 

'  Isn't  that  Saccard  the  speculator  ?  '  asked  Chanteau. 

'  Yes,'  answered  his  wife.  '  I  saw  him,  and  we  had  a  talk 
together.  Ho  is  a  charming  man.  He  has  so  many  things  to 
look  after,  he  told  me,  that  I  must  not  reckon  much  on  his 
assistance.  But,  you  know,  we  really  don't  want  anybody's 
help.  From  the  moment  we  take  the  child — well,  we  do  take 
her ;  and  we  don't  want  anybody  coming  and  interfering  with 
us.  All  the  other  business  was  got  through  quickly.  Your 
power-of-attorney  conferred  all  the  necessary  authority.  The 
seals  were  removed,  an  inventory  of  the  property  was  made, 
and  the  business  was  sold  by  auction.  The  sale  went  off 
splendidly,  for  there  were  two  parties  bidding  hotly  one 
against  the  other,  and  so  we  got  ninety  thousand  francs, 
cash  down.  The  notary  had  previously  discovered  scrip  for  sixty 
thousand  francs  in  a  desk.  I  begged  him  to  buy  more  scrip, 

1  The  chief  character  in  '  Money.' — ED. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  21 

and  so  now  we  have  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs 
securely  invested.  I  have  brought  the  scrip  along  with  me, 
having  first  given  the  chief  clerk  the  full  discharge  and 
receipt,  which  I  asked  you  to  send  me  by  return  of  post.  See  I 
here  it  is  1 ' 

She  had  thrust  her  hand  into  her  bag  and  brought  out  a 
bulky  packet.  It  was  the  scrip,  tied  up  between  two  pieces 
of  thick  cardboard  which  had  formed  the  binding  of  one  of 
the  shop  account-books.  The  green  marbled  surface  was 
speckled  with  grease-spots.  Both  father  and  son  looked 
attentively  at  the  fortune  which  lay  upon  the  shabby  tablecloth. 

'  The  tea  is  getting  cold,  mother,'  said  Lazare,  putting 
nis  pen  down  at  last.  '  Hadn't  I  better  pour  it  out  ?  ' 

He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  filled  the  cups.  His  mother 
had  returned  no  answer  to  his  question.  Her  eyes  were  still 
fixed  on  the  scrip. 

'  Of  course,'  she  continued  slowly,  '  at  a  subsequent 
meeting  of  the  family  council  which  I  summoned,  I  asked  to 
have  my  travelling  expenses  reimbursed,  and  the  sum  that 
we  are  to  receive  for  the  child's  maintenance  was  fixed  at 
eight  hundred  francs  a  year.  We  are  not  so  rich  as  she  is, 
and  we  cannot  afford  to  take  her  for  nothing.  None  of  us 
would  desire  to  make  a  farthing  profit  out  of  the  girl,  but  it 
would  have  pressed  us  too  much  to  have  kept  her  out  of  our 
own  income.  The  interest  of  her  fortune  will  be  banked  and 
invested,  and  her  capital  will  be  almost  doubled  by  the  time 
she  comes  of  age.  Well,  it  is  only  our  duty  that  we  are  doing. 
We  are  bound  to  obey  the  wishes  of  the  dead.  And  if  it  costs 
us  something  to  do  it,  perhaps  the  sacrifice  may  bring  us 

better  fortune,  of  which,  I  am  sure,  we  stand  in  great  need . 

The  poor  little  dear  was  so  cut  up,  and  sobbed  so  bitterly  at 
leaving  her  nurse !  I  trust  she  will  be  happy  with  us  here.' 

The  two  men  were  quite  affected. 

'Most  certainly  I  shall  never  be  unkind  to  her,'  said 
Chanteau. 

'  She  is  a  charming  little  thing,'  added  Lazare.  '  I  love 
her  already.' 

Just  then  Matthew  appeared  to  have  smelt  the  tea  in  his 
dreams,  for  he  gave  himself  a  shake,  and  again  came  and 
thrust  his  big  head  upon  the  edge  of  the  table.  Minouche, 
too,  got  up  and  stretched  herself  and  yawned,  and,  when  she 
was  quite  awake,  she  craned  out  her  neck  to  sniff  at  the 
packet  of  papers  in  the  greasy  covers.  As  the  Chanteaus 


22  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

glanced  at  Pauline,  they  saw  that  her  eyes  were  also  open 
and  fixed  upon  the  scrip  and  the  old  ledger  binding. 

'  Ah  1  she  knows  very  well  what  is  inside  there,'  said 
Madame  Chanteau.  '  Don't  you,  my  dear  ?  I  showed  them 
all  to  you  in  Paris.  That  is  what  your  poor  father  and 
mother  have  left  you.' 

Tears  trickled  down  the  child's  face.  Her  grief  often 
recurred  in  April-like  showers.  But  she  soon  smiled  again 
through  her  tears,  feeling  amused  at  Minouche,  who  had  for 
a  long  time  smelt  at  the  papers  and  was  doubtless  attracted 
by  their  odour,  for  she  began  to  purr  and  rub  her  head 
against  the  corners  of  the  ledger. 

'  Come  away,  Minouche  ! '  cried  Madame  Chanteau. 
'  Money  isn't  to  be  made  a  plaything  of  I ' 

Chanteau  laughed,  and  so  did  Lazare.  With  his  head 
resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  Matthew  was  becoming  quite 
excited.  Looking  eagerly  with  his  flaming  eyes  at  the 
packet  of  papers  which  he  must  have  taken  for  some  great 
delicacy,  he  began  to  bark  at  the  cat.  Then  all  the  family 
grew  lively.  Pauline  caught  up  Minouche  and  fondled  her 
in  her  arms  as  though  she  were  a  doll. 

For  fear  the  girl  should  drop  off  to  sleep  again,  Madame 
Chanteau  made  her  drink  her  tea  at  once.  Then  she  called 
Ve'ronique. 

'  Bring  us  our  candles.  Here  we  are  sitting  and  talking 
and  never  going  to  bed.  Why !  it  is  actually  ten  o'clock,  and 
I  am  so  tired  that  I  half  fell  asleep  at  dinner  ! ' 

But  a  man's  voice  sounded  from  the  kitchen,  and  when 
the  cook  returned  with  four  lighted  candles  her  mistress 
asked  her : 

'  Whom  were  you  talking  to  ?  ' 

1  It  is  Prouane,  Madame.  He  came  up  to  tell  the  master 
that  things  are  in  a  very  bad  way  down  yonder.  The  sea  is 
breaking  everything  to  pieces  apparently.' 

Chanteau  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  accept  office  as 
mayor  of  Bonneville,  and  Prouane,  the  tipsy  scamp,  who 
acted  as  Abb6  Horteur's  beadle,  likewise  discharged  the 
duties  of  mayor's  clerk.  He  had  been  a  non-commissioned 
officer  in  the  navy,  and  wrote  a  copybook  hand.  When  they 
called  to  him  to  come  into  the  room,  he  made  his  appearance 
with  his  woollen  cap  in  his  hand  and  his  jacket  and  boots 
streaming  with  water. 

'  Well  1  what's  the  matter,  Prouane  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  23 

'  Sure,  sir,  the  Cuches'  house  is  completely  flooded.  And 
if  it  goes  on  like  this  much  longer  it  will  be  the  same  with 
the  Gonins'.  We  have  all  been  down  there,  Tourmal,  Houte- 
lard,  myself,  and  the  others.  But  it  is  no  use ;  we  can't  do 
anything  against  that  thievish  sea.  It's  written  that  it  will 
carry  off  a  slice  of  the  land  every  year.' 

Then  they  all  became  silent.  The  four  candles  burned 
with  tall  flames,  and  the  rush  of  the  devouring  sea  against 
the  cliffs  broke  through  the  night  air.  It  was  now  high  tide, 
and  the  house  shook  as  every  wave  dashed  against  the  rocky 
barrier.  It  was  like  the  roaring  of  giant  artillery ;  thunderous 
consecutive  reports  arose  amidst  the  rolling  of  shingle,  which, 
as  it  swept  over  the  rocks,  sounded  like  the  continuous  crack- 
ling of  a  fusillade.  And  amidst  all  this  uproar  the  wind 
raised  its  howling  plaint,  and  the  rain,  every  now  and  then 
increasing  in  violence,  seemed  to  pelt  the  walls  of  the  house 
with  a  hail  of  bullets. 

'  It  is  like  the  end  of  the  world,'  Madame  Chanteau 
murmured.  '  What  will  the  Cuches  do  ?  Where  are  they 
going  to  take  refuge  ?  ' 

'  They  will  have  to  be  sheltered,'  said  Prouane.  '  Mean- 
time they  are  at  the  Gonins'.  What  a  sight  it  was ! 
There  was  a  little  lad,  who  is  only  three  years  old,  perfectly 
drenched,  and  his  mother  with  nothing  on  but  a  petticoat 
— begging  your  pardon  for  mentioning  it — and  the  father, 
too,  with  his  hand  split  open  by  a  falling  beam,  while  madly 
trying  to  save  their  few  rags.' 

Pauline  had  risen  from  the  table  and  returned  to  the 
window.  She  listened  to  what  was  being  said  with  all  the 
serious  demeanour  of  a  grown-up  person.  Her  expression 
indicated  distressful  sympathy  and  pity,  and  her  full  lips 
trembled  with  emotion. 

'  Oh,  aunt  1 '  she  said,  '  how  very  sad  for  the  poor  things ! ' 
Then  her  gaze  wandered  through  the  window  into  that  inky 
darkness  where  nothing  was  visible.  They  could  hear  that 
the  sea  had  reached  the  road,  and  was  sweeping  wildly  and 
fiercely  over  it,  but  they  could  see  nothing.  The  little  village 
and  the  rocks  and  the  whole  neighbourhood  seemed  submerged 
beneath  a  flood  of  ink.  For  the  young  girl  it  was  a  painful 
experience  and  surprise.  That  sea  which  she  had  thought  so 
beautiful  hurled  itself  upon  poor  folks  and  ruined  them  ! 

'  I  will  go  down  with  you,  Prouane,'  cried  Lazare, 
1  Perhaps  something  can  be  done,' 


24  7HE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

1  Oh  yes  1  do  go,  cousin  I '  Baid  Pauline,  with  flashing 
eyes.  But  the  man  shook  his  head. 

I  It  is  no  use  troubling  yourself,  Monsieur  Lazare ;  you 
couldn't  do  anything  more  than  the  others.    We  can  only 
stand  about  and  watch  the  sea  work  its  will,  and  destroy 
what  it  likes,  and  when  it  gets  tired  of  that  we  shall  have  to 
be  grateful  that  it  has  done  no  worse.    I  merely  came  up  to 
inform  Monsieur  Chanteau.' 

Then  Chanteau  began  to  grow  angry,  bothered  by  this 
business,  which  would  give  him  an  uneasy  night  and  demand 
all  his  attention  in  the  morning. 

I 1  don't  believe  there  ever  was  a  village  built  in  such  an 
idiotic  position  1 '   he  cried.     '  You  have   buried  yourselves 
right  under  the  waves,  and  it's  no  wonder  if  the  sea  swallows 
up  your  houses  one  by  one.    And  why  ever  in  the  world  do 
you  stop  in  such  a  place  ?     You  should  leave  it    and  go 
elsewhere.' 

4  Where  can  we  go  ?  '  asked  Prouane,  who  listened  with 
an  expression  of  stupefaction.  '  We  are  here,  sir,  and  we 
have  got  to  stop  here.  We  must  be  somewhere.' 

'  Yes,  that's  true,'  said  Madame  Chanteau,  bringing  the 
discussion  to  an  end.  '  And  wherever  you  are,  here  or  else- 
where, there  will  always  be  trouble We  are  just  going 

to  bed.  Good-night.  To-morrow  it  will  be  light.' 

The  man  went  off  bowing,  and  they  heard  V6ronique  bolt 
the  door  behind  him.  They  took  their  candles  and  gave  a 
parting  caress  to  Matthew  and  Minouche,  who  both  slept 
in  the  kitchen.  Lazare  collected  his  music  together,  and 
Madame  Chanteau  put  the  scrip  in  its  greasy  covers  beneath 
her  arm,  and  also  took  from  the  table  Davoine's  balance- 
sheet,  which  her  husband  had  forgotten.  It  was  a  heart- 
breaking paper,  and  the  sooner  it  was  put  out  of  sight  the 
better. 

'  We  are  going  to  bed,  V^ronique,'  she  cried.  '  You  need 
not  wander  up  and  down  at  this  time  of  night.'  But,  hearing 
nothing  save  a  grunt  in  the  kitchen,  she  added  in  lower 
tones : 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  I  haven't  brought  a 
baby  home  for  her  to  wean  ! ' 

'  Leave  her  alone,'  said  Chanteau.  '  She  has  her  whims, 
you  know.  Well !  we  are  all  four  here  :  so  good-night  I ' 

He  himself  slept  on  the  ground  floor,  in  a  room  on  the 
other  side  of  the  passage.  This  arrangement  had  been  made 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  35 

so  that,  when  he  was  suffering  from  an  attack  of  gout,  he 
might  be  readily  wheeled  in  his  arm-chair  either  to  table  or 
to  the  terrace.  He  opened  the  door,  and  then  stood  still 
for  a  moment.  His  legs  were  very  heavy,  as  at  the  approach 
of  a  fresh  attack,  of  which,  indeed,  the  stiffness  of  his  joints 
had  been  giving  him  warning  since  the  previous  day.  Plainly 
enough,  he  had  acted  very  foolishly  in  eating  that  foie  gras. 
The  consciousness  of  his  error  made  him  feel  anything  but 
happy. 

'  Good-night,'  he  repeated  in  a  mournful  voice.  '  You 
others  can  always  sleep.  Good-night,  my  little  dear.  Have 
a  good  long  rest ;  you  want  it  at  your  age.' 

'  Good-night,  uncle,'  said  Pauline  in  reply,  as  she  kissed 
him.  Then  the  door  closed.  Madame  XDhanteau  went  upstairs 
first  with  the  little  girl.  Lazare  followed  behind. 

'  Well,  for  my  part,  I  shan't  want  anyone  to  rock  me  to 
sleep  to-night,'  said  the  old  lady,  '  that's  quite  certain.  And 
I  don't  at  all  object  to  that  uproar.  I  find  it  lulling.  When 
I  was  in  Paris  I  quite  missed  the  shaking  of  my  bed.' 

They  all  went  up  to  the  first  floor.  Pauline,  who  care- 
fully held  her  candlestick  straight,  was  somewhat  amused  by 
this  procession  in  Indian  file,  each  carrying  a  lighted  candle, 
which  set  all  their  shadows  dancing.  When  she  reached  the 
landing  she  paused,  hesitating  where  to  go,  till  her  aunt 
gently  pushed  her  forward. 

'  Straight  on,'  she  said.  '  That  room  there  is  kept  for 
visitors,  and  this  one  opposite  is  mine.  Come  in  for  a 
minute ;  I  want  to  show  you  something.' 

The  bedroom,  hung  with  yellow  cretonne  with  a  pattern 
of  green  leaves,  was  very  plainly  furnished  in  mahogany. 
There  was  a  bed,  a  wardrobe,  and  a  secretaire.  In  the 
middle  stood  a  small  table  on  a  square  of  red  carpet.  When 
she  had  examined  every  corner  carefully  with  her  candle, 
Madame  Chanteau  went  up  to  the  secretaire  and  opened  it. 

'  Come  and  look ! '  she  said. 

She  drew  out  one  of  the  little  drawers  and  placed 
Davoine's  disastrous  balance-sheet  in  it,  with  a  sigh.  Then 
she  emptied  the  drawer  above  it,  pulled  it  right  out  and  shook 
it,  to  clear  it  of  a  few  old  scraps,  and,  with  Pauline  looking  at 
her  as  she  prepared  to  stow  the  scrip  away  in  it,  she  said : 

'  I  am  going  to  put  it  in  here,  you  see.  There  is  nothing 
else  hi  the  drawer,  and  it  will  be  all  by  itself.  Would  you 
like  to  put  it  there  yourself  ?  ' 


26  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Pauline  felt  a  slight  sense  of  shame,  which  she  could  not 
have  accounted  for.  She  blushed  as  she  answered,  '  Oh ! 
aunt  dear,  what  difference  does  it  make  ? ' 

But  she  had  already  taken  the  old  ledger-binding  in  her 
hand,  and  she  put  it  in  the  drawer,  while  Lazare  threw  the 
light  of  the  candle  he  was  holding  upon  the  secretaire. 

'  There ! '  said  Madame  Chanteau,  '  you  are  quite  sure 
about  it  now,  and  you  may  feel  quite  easy  about  it.  The 
drawer  is  the  top  one  on  the  left,  remember.  It  will  stop 
there  till  the  day  when  you  are  old  enough  to  come  and  take 
it  out  and  do  what  you  like  with  it.  Minouche  won't  be 
able  to  come  and  eat  it  here,  will  she  ? ' 

The  idea  of  Minouche  opening  the  secretaire  and  eating 
the  papers  quite  tickled  the  child's  fancy,  and  she  broke  into 
a  merry  laugh.  Her  momentary  embarrassment  altogether 
disappeared,  and  she  began  to  joke  with  Lazare,  who  amused 
her  by  purring  like  a  cat  and  pretending  to  make  an  attack 
upon  the  secretaire.  He,  too,  laughed  gaily.  His  mother, 
however,  very  solemnly  locked  the  flap,  turning  the  key 
round  twice. 

'  It  is  quite  safe  now,'  she  said.  '  Come,  Lazare,  don't 
make  yourself  ridiculous.  Now,  Pauline,  I  will  go  up  with 
you  to  your  room  to  see  if  you  have  got  everything  you  want.' 

They  all  three  filed  out  into  the  staircase.  When  they 
reached  the  second  floor,  Pauline  with  some  hesitation  opened 
the  door  of  the  room  on  her  left,  but  her  aunt  immediately 
called  out : 

'  No  !  no  I  not  that  one !  That's  your  cousin's  room. 
Yours  is  the  one  opposite.' 

Pauline,  however,  stood  where  she  was,  lost  in  amazement 
at  the  size  of  the  room  and  the  state  of  confusion  it  was  in. 
It  contained  a  piano,  a  couch,  and  a  huge  table,  besides  a  lot 
of  books  and  pictures.  And  when  at  last  she  opened  the 
opposite  door,  she  was  quite  delighted  to  find  that  her  own 
room  was  a  very  small  one  in  comparison  with  the  other. 
The  wall-paper  was  of  a  creamy  yellow,  flowered  with  blue 
roses.  The  furniture  consisted  of  an  iron  bedstead  hung  with 
muslin  curtains,  a  dressing-table,  a  chest  of  drawers,  and 
three  chairs. 

'  Yes  ;  you  have  everything  here,  I  think,'  said  Madame 
Chanteau — '  water,  sugar,  towels,  and  soap.  I  hope  you  will 
sleep  well.  Ve"ronique  has  a  little  room  beside  you.  If  you 
feel  at  all  frightened,  knock  on  the  wall,' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  27 

1  And  I  am  close  to  you  as  well,'  added  Lazare.  '  If  a 
ghost  comes,  I  will  fly  at  him  with  my  sword.' 

The  doors  of  both  rooms,  which  faced  each  other,  were 
open ;  Pauline's  eyes  strayed  from  one  to  the  other. 

'  There  are  no  ghosts,'  she  said  merrily.  '  You  must  keep 
your  sword  for  robbers.  Good-night,  aunt.  Good-night, 
cousin.' 

'  Good-night,  my  dear.  You  know  how  to  undress  your- 
self?' 

'  Oh !  yes.  I  am  getting  a  big  girl,  you  know,  now.  I 
always  did  everything  for  myself  in  Paris.' 

They  kissed  her,  and  Madame  Chanteau  told  her,  as  she 
went  off,  that  she  might  lock  her  door.  But  the  child  had 
already  sprung  to  the  window,  impatient  to  find  out  whether 
it  overlooked  the  sea.  The  rain  was  streaming  so  violently 
down  the  panes  that  she'  dared  not  open  it.  All  was  pitchy 
dark  outside,  but  she  felt  quite  happy  when  she  heard  the 
waves  beating  beneath  her.  Then,  in  spite  of  her  fatigue, 
which  almost  prevented  her  from  keeping  her  eyes  open, 
she  walked  round  the  room  and  examined  the  furniture.  The 
thought  that  she  was  to  have  a  room  of  her  own,  separate 
from  anyone  else,  where  she  might  shut  herself  up  entirely 
alone,  quite  flattered  and  pleased  her,  and  made  her  feel  as 
though  she  were  grown  up  already.  Just  as  she  was  about 
to  turn  the  key  in  the  lock,  however,  she  hesitated,  and  felt 
a  little  uneasy.  How  should  she  escape,  if  she  should  see 
anybody  in  the  night  ?  She  trembled  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  though  she  was  in  her  petticoats,  having  taken  off 
her  dress,  she  opened  the  door.  Opposite  to  her  she  saw 
Lazare,  standing  in  the  middle  of  his  room  and  looking  at 
her. 

'  Well  ?  '  he  said.  '  What's  the  matter  ?  Do  you  want 
anything  ? ' 

She  turned  very  red,  and  felt  disposed  to  tell  him  a  fib, 
but  her  natural  frankness  got  the  better  of  that  inclination. 

'No,  nothing,'  she  replied.  'But  I  feel  afraid,  do  you 
know,  when  the  door  is  locked ;  so  I  am  not  going  to  fasten 
it ;  and  if  you  hear  me  knock,  it  will  be  for  you  to  come.  You, 
mind,  and  not  the  cook ! ' 

He  had  walked  out  of  his  room  to  her  door,  attracted  by  the 
charm  of  her  child-like  frankness  and  innocence. 

'  Good-night ! '  he  repeated,  stretching  out  his  arms  to 
her.  She  thereupon  threw  her  puny  little  arms  round  his 


28  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

neck  and  pressed  him  to  her,  quite  regardless  of  the  scantiness 
of  her  attire. 

'  Good-night,  cousin  1 ' 

Five  minutes  later  she  bravely  blew  her  candle  out,  and 
buried  herself  in  her  muslin-curtained  bed.  For  a  long  time 
her  slumber  was  light  and  broken,  from  her  very  weariness. 
She  heard  V6ronique  come  upstairs,  without  the  least  care 
to  hush  her  footsteps,  and  then  push  her  furniture  about 
with  noise  enough  to  waken  everybody.  After  a  while,  how- 
ever, there  was  nothing  to  be  heard  save  the  tumult  of  the 
storm  outside.  The  rain  beat  down  upon  the  slates ;  the 
wind  shook  the  windows  and  whistled  under  the  doors,  and 
the  girl  long  listened  to  that  cannonading,  and  trembled 
and  quivered  as  each  wave  broke  against  the  cliff.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  house,  now  silent  and  lifeless,  was  being 
carried  out  to  sea  like  a  ship.  Then,  as  she  grew  warm  and 
snug  beneath  her  blankets,  her  wandering  thoughts  strayed, 
with  sympathetic  pity,  to  the  poor  people  down  in  the 
village,  whom  the  sea  was  driving  from  their  beds.  But  at 
last  everything  faded  from  her  mind,  and  she  slept  soundly, 
scarce  breathing. 


II 

FROM  the  first  week  Pauline's  presence  in  the  house  proved 
a  source  of  joy  and  pleasure  to  the  family.  Her  cheerful 
healthiness  and  her  calm,  tranquil  smile  spread  a  softening 
influence  over  the  asperities  of  the  Chanteau  household.  In 
her  the  father  found  a  nurse,  while  the  mother  was  made 
happy  by  the  fact  that  her  son  now  spent  more  of  his  time  at 
home.  It  was  only  V^ronique  who  went  on  grumbling  and 
growling.  The  knowledge  that  there  were  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  locked  up  in  the  secretaire,  although 
they  were  to  remain  scrupulously  untouched,  seemed  also  to 
give  the  family  a  semblance  of  wealth.  There  was  a  new 
influence  in  their  midst,  and  fresh  hopes  arose,  though  what 
they  were  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say. 

On  the  third  night  after  Pauline's  arrival,  the  attack  of 
gout,  which  Chanteau  had  foreseen,  broke  out  in  all  its  vio- 
lence. For  a  week  past  he  had  been  experiencing  prickings 
in  his  joints,  tremblings  and  quiverings  in  his  legs,  and  an 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  29 

utter  distaste  for  all  exercise.  He  had  gone  to  bed  feeling 
somewhat  easier,  but  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  had 
been  seized  with  a  frightful  pain  in  the  big  toe  of  his  left  foot. 
Thence  it  had  quickly  spread  to  his  heel,  and  then  risen  to  his 
ankle.  He  endured  the  agony  as  well  as  he  could  till  morn- 
ing, sweating  beneath  his  blankets,  anxious  as  he  was  to  dis- 
turb nobody.  His  attacks  were  the  dread  of  the  whole  house, 
and  he  always  put  off  calling  for  assistance  till  the  last  pos- 
sible minute,  feeling  ashamed  of  his  helplessness,  and  dread- 
ing the  angry  reception  which  awaited  the  announcement  of 
each  fresh  attack.  But  when  he  heard  Ve'ronique  go  past  his 
door,  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  could  no  longer 
restrain  a  groan,  as  a  sharper  spasm  of  pain  than  previously 
shot  through  his  foot. 

'  There  we  are  again  ! '  growled  the  cook.  '  Just  listen  to 
him  bellowing ! ' 

She  came  into  the  room  and  watched  him  as  he  lay  moan- 
ing and  tossing  his  head  about.  And  her  only  attempt  at 
consolation  was  to  say :  '  You  don't  suppose  this  will  please 
Madame  when  she  hears  of  it,  do  you  ?  ' 

As  soon  as  Madame  Chanteau  heard  of  her  husband's 
fresh  attack  she  bounced  into  the  room,  and,  letting  her 
hands  drop  by  her  sides  in  angry  desperation,  cried  out : 
'What,  again  I    No  sooner  do  I  get  back  than  this  begin 
afresh  1 ' 

For  the  last  fifteen  years  she  had  harboured  intense  hatred 
against  gout.  She  cursed  it  as  an  enemy,  a  thief  that  had 
blighted  her  existence,  ruined  her  son,  blasted  all  her  hopes. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  that  gout,  would  they  have  all  been 
living  a  life  of  exile  in  that  forsaken  hole?  Thus,  in 
spite  of  all  her  natural  kindness,  she  always  manifested  a 
petulant,  hostile  disposition  towards  her  husband  in  his 
attacks,  declaring,  too,  that  she  was  quite  incapable  of  nursing 
him. 

'  Oh  1  what  agony  I  suffer  ! '  groaned  the  unhappy  man. 
'  I  know  it  is  going  to  be  much  worse  this  time  than  it  was 
the  last.  Don't  stop  there,  as  it  puts  you  out  so,  but  send  for 
Doctor  Cazenove  at  once.1 

The  house  was  immediately  in  a  state  of  commotion. 
Lazare  set  off  to  Arromanches,  though  the  family  retained  but 
little  confidence  in  medical  help.  During  the  last  fifteen 
years  Chanteau  had  tried  all  sorts  of  medicines,  and  with  each 
fresh  kind  he  had  only  grown  worse.  His  attacks,  which  at 


30  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

first  had  been  slight  and  infrequent,  had  quickly  multiplied 
and  become  much  more  violent.  He  was  racked  with 
pain  in  both  feet,  and  one  of  his  knees  was  threatened  also. 
Three  times  already  had  he  seen  his  system  of  treatment 
changed,  and  his  wretched  body  had  become  a  mere  basis  for 
experimenting  with  competing  nostrums.  After  being  copi- 
ously bled,  he  had  been  scoured  with  purgatives,  and  now  they 
crammed  him  with  colchicum  and  lithium.  The  draining  - 
away  of  his  blood  and  the  weakening  of  his  frame  had 
turned  what  had  been  intermittent  into  chronic  gout. 
Local  treatment  had  been  no  more  successful.  Leeches  had 
left  his  joints  in  a  state  of  painful  stiffness ;  opium  only  pro- 
longed his  attacks,  and  blisters  brought  on  ulceration. 
Wiesbaden  and  Carlsbad  had  done  him  no  good,  and  a  season 
at  Vichy  had  all  but  killed  him. 

'  Oh  dear !  oh  dear  1  what  agony  I  am  suffering ! '  repeated 
poor  Chanteau.  '  It  is  just  as  though  a  lot  of  dogs  were 
gnawing  at  my  feet.' 

He  was  perpetually  altering  the  position  of  his  leg,  hoping 
to  gain  some  relief  by  the  change,  but  he  was  still  racked  with 
agony,  and  each  fresh  movement  drew  another  groan  from  him. 
Presently,  as  the  paroxysms  of  his  pain  grew  sharper,  a 
continuous  howl  came  from  his  lips.  He  shivered  and  grew 
quite  feverish,  and  his  throat  was  parched  with  a  burning 
thirst. 

Pauline  had  just  glided  into  his  room.  She  stood  by  hia 
bed  and  gazed  at  him  gravely,  but  did  not  give  way  to  tears  ; 
though  Madame  Chanteau  lost  her  head,  distracted  by  her 
husband's  cries  and  groans.  V6ronique  wished  to  arrange  the 
bedclothes  differently,  as  the  sufferer  found  their  weight 
intolerable,  but  as  she  was  about  to  lay  hold  of  them  with  her 
big  awkward  hands  he  screamed  yet  more  loudly  and  forbade 
her  to  touch  him.  He  was  quite  frightened  of  her,  and  said 
that  she  shook  him  as  roughly  as  though  he  were  a  bundle  of 
linen. 

'  Don't  call  for  me  again  then,  sir,'  she  said  as  she  bounced 
angrily  out  of  the  room.  '  If  you  won't  let  anybody  help  you, 
you  must  attend  to  yourself ! ' 

Thereupon  Pauline  gently  glided  up  to  the  bedside,  and 
with  delicate  skilfulness  lightened  the  pressure  of  the  bed- 
clothes with  her  childish  fingers.  The  sufferer  felt  a  short 
respite  from  his  agony,  and  accepted  the  girl's  help  with  a 
smile. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  31 

1  Thank  you,  my  dear.  Stay  1  stay  I  Ah  !  that  fold  there 
weighs  five  hundred  pounds  1  Oh !  not  so  quickly,  my  dear, 
you  quite  frightened  me.' 

Then  his  agony  returned  in  full  force  again ;  and  as  his  wife, 
trying  to  find  some  occupation  in  the  room,  first  drew  up  the 
blinds  and  then  bustled  to  his  bedside  and  placed  a  cup  on  the 
little  table,  he  grew  still  more  querulous. 

'  Oh !  do  keep  still ;  don't  rush  about  so !  You  make 
everything  shake  and  tremble.  Every  step  you  take  is  just  like 
a  blow  on  my  head  with  a  hammer.1 

She  made  no  attempt  at  apologising  or  soothing  him. 
Matters  always  ended  in  this  fashion,  and  he  was  left  to  suffer 
in  solitude. 

1  Come  along,  Pauline,'  she  said, quite  unconcernedly.  '  You 
see  that  your  uncle  can't  endure  to  have  any  of  us  near  him.' 

But  Pauline  stayed  behind  in  the  sick-room.  She  glided 
about  with  such  a  light  step  that  her  feet  scarcely  seemed 
to  touch  the  floor.  From  that  moment  she  installed  herself 
there  as  the  sick  man's  nurse,  and  she  was  the  only  person 
whose  presence  in  the  room  he  could  endure.  She  seemed 
able  to  read  his  thoughts,  and  she  anticipated  all  his  wants, 
softening  the  light  as  occasion  seemed  to  require,  and  giving 
him  his  gruel,  which  V6ronique  brought  as  far  as  the  door. 
But  what  the  poor  man  found  especially  soothing  and 
comforting  was  to  see  her  constantly  before  him,  sitting 
thoughtfully  and  quietly  on  her  chair,  with  her  big  sympathetic 
eyes  ever  fixed  upon  him.  He  tried  to  find  some  distraction 
from  his  weariness  in  telling  her  of  his  sufferings. 

'  Just  now  I  feel  as  if  someone  were  sawing  away  at  the 
joints  of  my  toes  with  a  jagged  knife,  and  at  the  same  time  I 
could  almost  swear  that  I  was  being  drenched  with  warm 
water.' 

Then  the  character  of  his  agony  changed.  It  seemed  as 
though  a  steel  wire  were  twisted  tightly  round  his  ankle,  and 
he  could  feel  his  muscles  being  strained  till  they  were  on  the 
point  of  breaking.  Pauline  listened  with  affectionate  com- 
plaisance and  seemed  to  fully  understand  all  he  told  her, 
remaining  ever  placid  amongst  all  his  groanings,  with  no  other 
thought  than  to  do  what  she  could  to  alleviate  his  pain.  She 
even  forced  herself  to  appear  gay,  and  actually  succeeded  in 
making  him  laugh  between  his  paroxysms. 

When  Doctor  Cazenove  at  last  arrived,  he  was  filled  with 
admiration  of  the  little  nurse,  and  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss  upon 


3a  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

her  head.  The  Doctor  was  a  man  of  fifty-four,  vigorous  and 
lean,  who,  after  thirty  years'  service  in  the  navy,  had  just 
settled  down  at  Arromanches,  where  an  uncle  had  left  him  a 
house.  He  had  been  a  friend  of  the  Chanteaus  ever  since  ho 
had  cured  Madame  Chanteau  of  an  awkward  sprain. 

1  Well  I  well  1  here  I  am  again  1  '  he  said.  '  I  have  just 
come  in  to  shake  hands ;  but,  you  know,  I  can  do  nothing 
more  for  you  than  the  little  girl  is  already  doing.  When  one 
has  inherited  gout,  and  has  got  past  one's  fiftieth  year,  one 
must  reconcile  oneself  to  it.  And  then,  you  know,  you  ruined 
your  constitution  with  the  shopful  of  drugs  you  swallowed. 
The  only  remedies  are  patience  and  flannel ! ' 

The  Doctor  affected  utter  scepticism  of  the  power  of 
medicine  in  such  a  case.  In  thirty  years  he  had  seen  so 
many  poor  sufferers  racked  with  pain  and  disease,  in  all  sorts 
of  climates  and  in  all  kinds  of  surroundings,  that  he  had 
grown  very  modest  about  his  power  to  afford  any  actual  relief. 
He  generally  preferred  to  let  Nature  work  out  its  own  cure. 
However,  he  carefully  examined  Chanteau's  swollen  toe, 
whose  gleaming  skin  had  turned  a  deep  red,  went  on  to  look 
at  the  knee  which  was  threatened  with  inflammation,  and 
finally  took  note  of  the  presence  of  a  little  pearl-like  deposit, 
white  and  hard,  at  the  edge  of  the  patient's  right  ear. 

'  But,  Doctor,1  groaned  the  sufferer,  '  you  are  not  going  to 
leave  me  suffering  like  this  ? ' 

Cazenove's  demeanour  had  become  quite  serious.  That 
chalky  bead  interested  him,  and  his  faith  in  medical  science 
returned  at  the  sight  of  this  new  symptom.  '  Dear  me  ! '  he 
murmured  half  to  himself,  '  I  had  better  try  what  salts  and 
alkalies  will  do.  It  is  evidently  becoming  chronic.' 

Then  in  a  louder  and  angry  tone  he  said  :  '  It  is  your  own 
fault,  you  know.  You  won't  follow  the  directions  I  have  given 
you.  You  are  always  glued  to  your  arm-chair,  and  you  never 
think  of  taking  any  exercise.  And  then  I  dare  say  you  have 
been  drinking  wine  and  eating  too  much  meat.  Eh  !  haven't 
you,  now?  Confess  that  you  have  been  taking  something 
heating ! ' 

'  Nothing  but  a  tiny  bit  offoie  gras,'  murmured  Chanteau, 
very  humbly. 

The  Doctor  raised  both  his  arms,  as  though  to  call  the 
elements  to  witness  his  patient's  folly.  Then  he  took  some 
little  phials  from  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat,  and  began  to 
prepare  a  draught.  By  way  of  local  treatment  he  simply 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  33 

wrapped  the  foot  and  knee  in  cotton-wool,  which  he  kept  in 
its  place  by  twisting  some  waxed  thread  round  it.  When  he 
went  away,  it  was  to  Pauline  that  he  gave  his  directions.  The 
invalid  was  to  have  a  tablespoonful  of  the  draught  every  two 
hours,  and  as  much  gruel  as  he  liked,  but  he  must  observe  the 
greatest  strictness  in  the  matter  of  diet. 

'  If  you  suppose  that  anybody  can  keep  him  from  eating 
anything  he  chooses,  you  are  very  much  mistaken,'  said 
Madame  Chanteau,  as  she  went  with  the  Doctor  to  the  door. 

1  No  1  no  !  aunt  dear ;  he  will  be  very  good,  you  will  see,' 
Pauline  ventured  to  assert.  '  I  will  make  him  do  what  is 
right.' 

Cazenove  looked  at  her,  and  was  amused  by  her  serious 
manner.  He  kissed  her  again,  on  both  her  cheeks  this 
time. 

'  There's  a  good  little  girl,'  he  said,  '  who  came  into  the 
world  on  purpose  to  help  others.' 

For  a  whole  week  Chanteau  lay  groaning.  Just  when  the 
attack  seemed  over,  his  right  foot  was  seized  by  the  foe, 
and  all  his  agony  returned  with  increased  violence.  The  whole 
house  rang  with  his  cries.  Ve'ronique  kept  in  the  depths  of 
her  kitchen  so  as  to  escape  the  sound  of  them,  and  Madame 
Chanteau  and  Lazare  sometimes  actually  ran  out  of  the  house, 
quite  overcome  by  nervous  excitement.  It  was  only  Pauline 
who  remained  with  the  sick  man,  and  she  indeed  never  left 
his  room.  She  was  ever  struggling  with  his  foolish  whims 
and  fancies;  as,  for  instance,  when  he  furiously  insisted  upon 
having  a  cutlet  cooked,  sajing  that  he  was  very  hungry,  and 
roundly  declaring  that  Doctor  Cazenove  was  an  ass  and  didn't 
know  what  was  good  for  him.  The  night  was  the  worst  time, 
for  then  the  attacks  seemed  to  come  on  with  increased  violence. 
Pauline  could  only  snatch  some  two  or  three  hours'  sleep. 
But,  in  spite  of  it  all,  she  retained  her  spirits,  and  her  health 
did  not  seem  in  any  way  to  suffer.  Madame  Chanteau  readily 
accepted  her  services,  until,  when  Chanteau  was  again  con- 
valescent, the  girl  at  last  regained  her  Liberty ;  and  then  a 
close  companionship  sprang  up  between  her  and  Lazare. 

It  took  its  rise  in  that  by-room  which  the  young  man 
occupied  upstairs.  He  had  had  a  partition  knocked  down, 
and  so  this  room  of  his  covered  half  of  the  second  storey. 
A  little  iron  bedstead  was  hidden  away  behind  a  tattered 
old  screen.  Against  the  wall  and  on  the  bare  floor-boards 
were  piled  a  thousand  volumes  of  books,  classical  works, 

D 


34  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

largely  imperfect  sets,  which  had  been  discovered  in  a  lumber- 
room  at  Caen  and  had  been  trasported  to  Bonneville.  Near 
the  window  there  was  a  huge  antique  Norman  wardrobe 
crammed  with  all  kinds  of  out-of-the-way  objects,  specimens 
of  minerals,  old  and  useless  tools,  and  broken  toys.  There 
was  a  piano,  also,  over  which  were  hung  a  pair  of  foils 
and  a  fencing-mask :  and  there  was  an  enormous  table  in  the 
centre,  an  old  high  drawing-table,  so  completely  littered  with 
papers,  engravings,  tobacco-jars  and  pipes  that  it  was  difficult 
to  find  a  hand's-breadth  of  space  available  for  writing. 

Pauline  was  delighted  when  she  was  given  the  freedom 
of  this  wild  chaos.  She  spent  a  month  in  exploring  it 
thoroughly,  and  every  day  she  made  some  new  discovery, 
such  as  an  illustrated '  Robinson  Crusoe '  which  she  came  upon 
in  rummaging  amongst  the  books,  or  a  doll  which  she  fished 
out  of  the  miscellaneous  collection  in  the  cupboard.  As  soon 
as  she  was  dressed  of  a  morning,  she  sprang  out  of  her  own 
room  into  her  cousin's  and  settled  herself  there  ;  and  in  the 
afternoon  she  often  returned  thither  again. 

From  the  day  of  her  first  visit  Lazare  had  received  her 
as  though  she  had  been  a  boy,  a  younger  brother,  some  nine 
years  his  junior,  but  so  merry  and  amusing  and  with  such 
big  intelligent  eyes  as  to  be  in  no  wise  in  his  way ;  and  as 
usual  he  went  on  smoking  his  pipe,  lolling  in  his  chair  with 
his  legs  cocked  up  in  the  air,  or  reading,  or  writing  long 
letters  into  which  he  slipped  flowers.  Sometimes  they  made 
a  pretty  riot  between  them,  for  Pauline  had  a  habit  of 
suddenly  springing  upon  the  table  or  bounding  through  the 
split  folds  of  the  old  screen.  One  morning  as  Lazare  won- 
dered why  he  did  not  hear  her,  and  turned  to  ascertain 
what  she  might  be  about,  he  saw  her,  foil  in  hand,  with  her 
face  screened  with  the  fencing-mask  as  she  flourished  away 
at  space.  Whenever  he  told  her  to  be  still  or  threatened 
to  turn  her  out  of  the  room,  the  result  was  a  tremendous 
skirmish  and  a  wild  pursuit  through  the  disorderly  place. 
Then  she  would  fly  at  him  and  throw  her  arms  on  his  neck, 
and  he  twirled  her  round  like  a  top,  with  her  petticoats 
circling  about  her.  As  the  room  echoed  with  their  merry 
childlike  laughter,  he  felt  quite  a  boy  again  himself. 

Next  the  piano  afforded  them  occupation.  It  was  an  old 
instrument  of  Erard's  make,  dating  from  the  year  1810,  and 
upon  it,  in  former  times,  Mademoiselle  Eugenie  de  la  Vigniere 
had  given  lessons  for  fifteen  years.  The  strings  in  its 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  35 

mahogany  case,  from  which  most  of  the  polish  had  departed, 
sighed  out  far-away  tones  of  a  muffled  softness.  Lazare, 
who  had  never  been  able  to  persuade  his  mother  to  get  him  a 
new  piano,  strummed  away  on  the  old  instrument  with  all  his 
might,  without  succeeding  in  eliciting  from  it  the  sonorous 
rhapsodies  buzzing  in  his  head ;  and  he  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  adding  the  notes  of  his  own  voice  to  the  instru- 
ment's in  order  to  obtain  the  required  volume  of  sound.  His 
passion  for  music  soon  led  him  to  abuse  Pauline's  easy 
complaisance.  He  had  found  a  listener,  and  for  whole  after- 
noons he  kept  her  there  while  he  went  through  his  repertoire, 
which  comprised  all  that  was  most  complicated  in  music,  and 
notably  the  then  unacknowledged  scores  of  Berlioz  and 
Wagner.  He  poured  forth  his  vocal  accompaniment,  and,  as 
his  enthusiasm  increased,  rendered  the  piece  quite  as  much 
with  his  throat  as  with  his  fingers.  On  these  occasions  the 
poor  child  used  to  feel  dreadfully  bored,  but  she  went  on 
listening  with  an  air  of  rapt  attention,  so  that  she  might 
not  hurt  her  cousin's  feelings. 

Sometimes  darkness  would  surprise  them  still  at  the  piano, 
and  then  Lazare  would  leave  off  playing  and  tell  Pauline  of 
his  dreams  for  the  future.  He  would  be  a  great  musician  in 
spite  of  his  mother,  in  spite  of  everybody.  At  the  college  at 
Caen  a  professor  of  the  violin,  struck  by  his  genius  for  music, 
had  prophesied  a  glorious  career  for  him.  He  had  secretly 
taken  private  lessons  in  composition,  and  now  he  was  working 
hard  by  himself.  He  already  had  in  his  head  a  vague  outline 
of  a  symphony  on  the  subject  of  the  Earthly  Paradise ;  and, 
indeed,  he  had  actually  written  the  score  of  one  passage  de- 
scriptive of  Adam  and  Eve  being  driven  away  by  the  angels, 
a  march  of  a  solemn  and  mournful  character,  which  he 
consented  to  play  one  evening  to  Pauline.  The  child  quite 
approved  of  it  and  declared  it  delightful.  Then,  however,  she 
began  to  talk  to  him ;  of  course  it  must  be  very  nice,  she 
said,  to  compose  pretty  music,  but  wouldn't  it  be  more 
prudent  if  he  were  to  obey  the  wishes  of  his  parents,  who 
wanted  to  make  him  a  prefect  or  a  judge  ?  The  whole  house 
was  made  unhappy  by  the  quarrel  between  the  mother  and 
the  son ;  he  declaring  that  he  would  go  to  Paris  to  the  Con- 
servatoire, and  she  replying  that  she  would  just  give  him  till 
next  October  to  make  up  his  mind  to  embrace  some  respect- 
able profession.  Pauline  backed  up  her  aunt's  designs,  and 
told  her,  with  an  air  of  tranquil  conviction,  that  she  would 

D    2 


36  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

take  upon  herself  to  bring  her  cousin  round  to  proper  views. 
She  indeed  argued  the  matter  with  Lazare,  who  grew  angry 
with  her  and  violently  closed  the  piano,  telling  her  that  she 
was  '  a  horrid  bourgeoise.' 

For  three  days  they  sulked  with  each  other,  and  then  made 
friends  again.  To  win  her  over  to  his  musical  scheme,  Lazare 
wished  to  teach  her  to  play  on  the  piano.  He  showed  her 
how  to  place  her  fingers  on  the  keys,  and  kept  her  for  hours 
running  up  and  down  the]  scales.  But  she  discouraged  him 
very  much  by  her  lack  of  enthusiasm.  She  was  always  on 
the  look-out  for  something  to  laugh  at  and  make  a  joke  of, 
and  took  great  delight  in  making  Minouche  promenade  along 
the  key-board  and  execute  barbaric  symphonies  with  her 
paws,  asserting  that  the  cat  was  playing  the  famous  banish- 
ment from  the  Earthly  Paradise,  whereat  the  composer 
himself  smiled.  Then  they  broke  out  into  boisterous  fun 
again,  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  he  spun  her 
round  like  a  top,  while  Minouche,  joining  in  the  merriment, 
sprang  from  the  table  to  the  top  of  the  cupboard.  As  for 
Matthew,  he  was  not  admitted  into  the  room,  as  he  was  apt 
to  become  over-riotous  when  he  felt  merry. 

'  You  drive  me  crazy,  you  wretched  little  shopkeeper  I ' 
Lazare  one  day  broke  out,  quite  impatiently.  '  You  had 
better  get  my  mother  to  teach  you,  if  you  can  persuade  her  to 
do  so.' 

'  All  this  music  of  yours  will  never  do  you  any  good,  you 
know,'  Pauline  answered  quite  roundly.  'If  I  were  you  I 
would  be  a  doctor.' 

He  stared  at  her  fiercely.  A  doctor,  indeed !  What  had 
put  that  idea  into  her  head"  ?  He  worked  himself  into  a  state 
of  excitement  that  made  him  lose  all  self-control. 

'  Listen  to  me  ! '  he  cried.  '  If  they  won't  let  me  be  a 
musician,  I'll  kill  myself  ! ' 

The  summer  completed  Chanteau's  restoration  to  health, 
and  Pauline  was  now  able  to  follow  Lazare  in  his  rambles  out 
of  doors.  The  big  room  was  deserted,  and  they  set  off  on 
wild  adventures  together.  For  some  days  they  confined 
themselves  to  the  terrace,  where  vegetated  tufts  of  tamarisks, 
which  the  salt  winds  had  nipped  and  blighted.  Then  they 
invaded  the  yard,  broke  the  chain  belonging  to  the  well, 
terrified  the  dozen  skinny  fowls  that  lived  upon  grasshoppers, 
and  hid  themselves  in  the  empty  stable  and  coach-house  and 
knocked  the  plaster  off  the  walls.  Thence  they  slipped  into 


THE  joy  OF  LIFE  37 

the  kitchen-garden,  a  hit  of  poor  dry  ground,  which  Ve"ronique 
dug  and  hoed  like  a  peasant.  There  were  four  beds  sown 
with  tough  vegetables  and  planted  with  miserable  stumps  of 
pear-trees,  which  were  all  bent  by  the  north-west  gales.  And 
while  here,  on  pushing  open  a  little  door,  they  found  them- 
selves on  the  cliffs,  under  the  broad  sky,  with  the  open  sea  in 
front  of  them.  Pauline's  absorbing  interest  in  that  mighty 
expanse  of  water,  now  so  soft  and  pure  under  the  bright  July 
sun,  had  never  diminished.  It  was  always  for  the  sea  that  she 
looked  from  every  window  in  the  house.  But  she  had  never 
yet  been  near  it,  and  a  new  era  in  her  life  commenced  when 
she  found  herself  alone  with  Lazare  in  the  solitude  of  the 
shore. 

What  happy  times  they  had  together  I  Madame  Chanteau 
grumbled  and  wanted  to  keep  them  in  the  house,  in  spite  of 
all  her  confidence  in  Pauline's  discretion  ;  and  so  they  never 
went  out  through  the  yard,  where  Ve'ronique  would  have  seen 
them,  but  glided  stealthily  through  the  kitchen-garden,  and 
so  escaped,  to  appear  no  more  till  evening.  They  soon  found 
their  rambles  round  the  church  and  the  graveyard,  with 
its  shadowing  yews  and  the  priest's  salad-beds,  a  trifle 
monotonous,  and  in  a  week  they  had  quite  exhausted  the 
attractions  of  Bonneville,  with  its  thirty  cottages  clinging  to 
the  side  of  the  cliff  and  its  strip  of  shingle  where  the  fisher- 
men drew  up  their  boats.  When  the  tide  was  low  it  was  far 
more  amusing  to  wander  along  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  They 
walked  over  fine  sand,  frightening  the  little  crabs  that 
scudded  away  before  them,  or  jumped  from  rock  to  rock 
among  the  thick  seaweed  and  the  sparkling  pools  where 
shrimps  were  skimming  about;  to  say  nothing  of  the  fish 
they  caught,  of  the  mussels  they  ate,  raw  and  even  without 
bread,  or  the  strange-looking  creatures  they  carried  away  in 
their  handkerchiefs,  or  the  odd  discoveries  they  sometimes 
made,  such  as  that  of  a  stranded  dab  or  a  little  lobster  lurking 
at  the  bottom  of  a  hole.  They  would  sometimes  let  them- 
selves be  overtaken  by  the  rising  tide  and  rush  merrily  for 
refuge  to  some  big  rock,  to  wait  there  till  the  ebb  allowed 
them  to  go  their  way  again.  They  were  perfectly  happy  as 
they  came  back  home  in  the  evening  wet  through  and  with 
their  hair  all  tossed  about  by  the  wind.  And  they  grew  so 
accustomed  to  this  life  in  the  fresh  salt  breezes  that  they 
found  the  atmosphere  of  the  lamp-lighted  room  at  night  quite 
suffocating. 


38  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

But  their  greatest  pleasure  of  all  was  bathing.  The  beach 
was  too  rocky  to  attract  the  inhabitants  of  Caen  and  Bayeux, 
and,  whereas  every  year  new  villas  rose  on  the  cliffs  at 
Arromanches,  never  a  single  bather  made  his  appearance  at 
Bonneville.  Lazare  and  Pauline  had  discovered,  about  half 
a  mile  from  the  village,  over  towards  Port-en-Bessin,  a 
delightful  spot,  a  little  bay  shut  in  by  two  rocky  cliffs  and 
carpeted  with  soft  glittering  sand.  They  called  it  the  Golden 
Bay,  for  its  secluded  waves  seemed  to  wash  up  pieces  of 
glittering  gold.  They  were  quite  alone  and  undisturbed  there, 
and  undressed  and  slipped  on  their  bathing  things  without 
any  feeling  of  shame.  Lazare  in  a  week  taught  Pauline  to 
swim.  She  was  much  more  enthusiastic  about  this  than  she 
had  been  about  the  piano,  and  in  her  plucky  attempts  she 
often  swallowed  big  mouthf  uls  of  salt  water.  If  a  larger  wave 
than  usual  sent  them  tottering  one  against  the  other,  they 
laughed  gleefully ;  and  when  they  came  out  of  the  water,  they 
went  romping  over  the  sand  till  the  wind  had  dried  them. 
This  was  much  more  amusing  than  fishing. 

The  days  slipped  away,  however,  and  August  came  round, 
and  as  yet  Lazare  had  come  to  no  decision.  In  October 
Pauline  was  to  go  to  a  boarding-school  at  Bayeux.  When 
bathing  had  tired  them,  they  would  sit  on  the  sand  and  talk 
over  the  state  of  their  affairs  gravely  and  sensibly.  Pauline 
had  succeeded  in  interesting  Lazare  in  medical  matters  by 
telling  him  that  if  she  were  a  man  she  should  think  nothing 
nobler  or  more  delightful  than  to  be  able  to  cure  ailing 
people.  Besides,  for  the  last  week  or  so,  the  Earthly  Para- 
dise had  not  been  getting  on  satisfactorily,  and  Lazare  was 
beginning  to  have  doubts  about  his  genius  for  music.  At 
any  rate,  there  had  been  great  glory  won  in  the  practice  of 
medicine,  and  he  bethought  him  of  many  illustrious  names, 
Hippocrates,  Ambrose  Pare",  and  others. 

One  afternoon,  however,  he  burst  out  into  a  loud  cry  of 
delight.  He  had  the  score  of  his  masterpiece  in  his  hand  at 
the  time.  It  was  all  rubbish,  he  said,  that  Paradise  of  his, 
and  could  not  be  worked  out.  He  would  destroy  it  all,  and 
write  quite  a  new  symphony  on  Grief,  which  should  describe 
in  sublime  harmonies  the  hopeless  despair  of  Humanity 
groaning  beneath  the  skies.  He  retained  the  march  of  Adam 
and  Eve,  and  boldly  transferred  it  to  his  new  work  as  the 
'March  of  Death.'  For  a  week  his  enthusiasm  increased 
every  hour,  and  the  whole  universe  entered  into  the  scheme 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  39 

of  his  symphony.  But,  when  another  week  had  passed  away, 
Pauline  was  very  much  astonished  to  hear  him  say  one 
evening  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  go  and  study  medicine  in 
Paris.  He  was  really  thinking  that  by  doing  so  he  would  be 
near  the  Conservatoire,  and  would  then  be  able  to  see  what 
could  be  done.  Madame  Chanteau,  however,  was  delighted. 
She  would  certainly  have  preferred  seeing  her  son  hold  some 
judicial  or  administrative  office,  but,  at  any  rate,  doctors  were 
very  respectable  persons  and  sometimes  made  a  good  deal  of 
money.  '  You  must  be  a  little  witch ! '  she  said,  kissing 
Pauline ;  '  you  have  more  than  repaid  us,  my  dear,  for  taking 
you.' 

Everything  was  settled.  Lazare  was  to  leave  on  the 
1st  of  October.  During  the  month  of  September  that 
remained  to  them  they  gave  themselves  up  with  greater 
fervour  than  ever  to  their  romps  and  rambles,  resolved  to 
finish  their  term  of  freedom  in  a  worthy  manner.  They 
sported  about  in  the  Golden  Bay  at  times  till  darkness  sur- 
prised them  there. 

One  evening  they  were  sitting  on  the  beach,  watching  the 
stars  appear  like  fiery  beads  in  the  paling  sky.  Pauline 
gazed  at  them  with  the  placid  admiration  of  a  healthy  child, 
whereas  Lazare,  who  had  become  feverish  ever  since  he  had 
been  preparing  for  his  departure,  blinked  nervously, while  in  his 
mind  revolved  all  kinds  of  schemes  and  ambitions  for  the  future. 

1  How  lovely  the  stars  are  1 '  said  Pauline  quietly,  after  a 
long  interval  of  silence. 

He  made  no  reply.  All  his  cheerfulness  had  left  him ; 
his  gaze  seemed  disturbed  by  some  inward  anxiety.  Up 
in  the  sky  the  stars  were  growing  thicker  every  minute,  as  if 
sparks  were  being  cast  by  the  handful  across  the  heavens. 

'  You  have  never  learned  anything  about  them,  have 
you  ?  '  he  said  at  last.  '  Each  star  up  yonder  is  a  sun,  round 
which  there  are  planets  wheeling  like  the  earth.  There  are 
thousands  and  thousands  of  them;  and  far  away  beyond 
those  you  can  see  are  legions  of  others.  There  is  no  end  to 
them.'  Then  he  became  silent  for  a  moment.  By-and-by 
he  resumed  in  a  voice  that  quivered  with  emotion  :  '  I  don't 
like  to  look  at  them  ;  they  make  me  feel  afraid.' 

The  rising  tide  waa  raising  a  distant  wail,  like  the  mournful 
cry  of  a  multitude  lamenting  its  wretchedness.  Over  the 
horizon,  black  now  with  fallen  night,  glittered  the  gold-dust 
of  wheeling  worlds.  And  amid  that  sad  wail  that  echoed 


40  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

round  them  from  the  world,  pressed  low  beneath  the  countless 
stars,  Pauline  thought  she  detected  a  sound  of  bitter  sobbing 
beside  her. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?    Are  you  ill  ? ' 

Lazare  made  no  answer.  He  was  indeed  sobbing,  with 
his  face  hidden  in  his  convulsively  twitching  hands,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  blot  out  the  sight  of  everything.  And 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  speak,  he  gasped :  '  Oh,  to  die  I 
to  die ! ' 

The  scene  filled  Pauline  with  long-lasting  astonishment. 
Lazare  rose  to  his  feet  with  difficulty,  and  they  went  back  to 
Bonneville  through  the  darkness,  the  rising  tide  pressing  closely 
upon  them.  Neither  spoke  a  word  to  the  other.  As  Pauline 
watched  the  young  man  go  on  in  front  of  her,  he  seemed  to 
grow  shorter,  to  bend  beneath  the  breeze  from  the  west. 

That  evening  they  found  a  newcomer  waiting  for  them  in 
the  dining-room,  talking  to  Chanteau.  For  a  week  past  they 
had  been  expecting  the  arrival  of  a  young  girl  called  Louise, 
who  was  eleven  years  and  a  half  old,  and  came  to  spend  a 
fortnight  every  year  at  Bonneville.  They  had  twice  gone  to 
meet  her  at  Arromanches,  without  finding  her,  and  now,  that 
evening,  when  no  one  was  looking  for  her,  she  had  turned  up 
quite  unexpectedly.  Louise's  mother  had  died  in  Madame 
Chanteau' s  arms,  recommending  her  daughter  to  the  other's 
care.  Her  father,  Monsieur  Thibaudier,  a  banker  at  Caen, 
had  married  again  six  months  afterwards,  and  had  already 
three  children  by  his  present  wife.  Absorbed  by  his  new 
family  and  business  matters,  he  had  sent  Louise  to  a  boarding- 
school,  and  was  only  too  glad  when  he  could  get  her  off  his 
hands  during  the  holidays  by  sending  her  upon  a  round  of 
visits  to  her  friends.  He  gave  himself  as  little  trouble  about 
her  as  possible,  and  she  had  come  to  the  Chanteaus'  a  week 
behind  her  time,  in  the  charge  of  a  servant.  '  The  master  had 
so  much  to  worry  him,'  said  the  latter,  who  returned  home 
immediately  she  had  deposited  her  charge  at  Bonneville,  with 
an  intimation  that  Mademoiselle's  father  would  do  his  best  to 
come  and  fetch  her  himself  when  her  time  was  up. 

'  Come  along,  Lazare  I '  cried  Chanteau.  '  Here  she  is  at 
last ! ' 

Louise  smiled  and  kissed  the  young  man  on  both  hia 
cheeks,  though  the  acquaintance  between  them  was  slight,  for 
she  had  been  constantly  shut  up  in  school,  and  it  was  barely 
a  year  since  he  had  left  college.  Their  knowledge  of  each 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  41 

other  really  dated  from  their  last  holidays,  and  Lazare  had 
hitherto  treated  the  girl  somewhat  ceremoniously,  fancying 
that  she  already  considered  herself  grown-up,  and  despised 
any  youthful  display  of  boisterousness. 

'  Well,  Pauline,  aren't  you  going  to  kiss  her  ? '  said 
Chanteau,  entering  the  room.  '  She  is  older  than  you  by  a 
year  and  a  half,  you  know.  You  must  be  very  fond  of  each 
other ;  it  will  please  me  very  much  to  see  you  so.' 

Pauline  looked  keenly  at  Louise,  who  was  slight  and 
delicate,  with  somewhat  irregular  though  very  pleasing 
features.  Her  hair  was  thick  and  fair,  and  was  curled  and 
arranged  like  that  of  a  young  woman.  Pauline  turned  a  little 
pale  on  seeing  Louise  kiss  Lazare ;  and  when  she  herself  was 
kissed  by  her  with  a  smile,  it  was  with  quivering  lips  that 
she  returned  the  salute. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  '  asked  her  aunt.  '  Are 
you  cold  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  am  a  little.  The  wind  was  rather  chilly,' 
she  answered,  blushing  at  the  falsehood  she  was  telling. 

When  they  sat  down  to  dinner  she  ate  nothing.  Her  eyea 
never  strayed  from  the  faces  of  those  who  were  present,  and 
became  very  black  whenever  her  uncle  or  her  cousin  c::  even 
Veronique  paid  any  attention  to  Louise.  But  she  seemed  to 
be  especially  pained  when  Matthew,  making  his  customary 
round  of  the  table,  went  and  laid  his  huge  head  upon  the 
newcomer's  knee.  It  was  quite  in  vain  that  she  called  him 
to  her.  He  would  not  leave  Louise,  who  gorged  him  with 
sugar. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table,  Pauline  immediately  left 
the  room.  Veronique  was  clearing  the  things  away,  and  aa 
she  came  back  from  the  kitchen  for  a  fresh  trayful  she  said, 
with  a  triumphant  expression  :  '  Ah,  Madame  !  I  know  you 
think  your  Pauline  quite  perfect,  but  just  go  and  look  at  her 
now  in  the  yard.' 

They  all  went  out  to  see.  Hiding  away  behind  the  coach- 
house, Pauline  was  holding  Matthew  against  the  wall,  and, 
apparently  mad  with  passion,  was  hitting  his  head  with  all 
the  strength  of  her  clenched  fists.  The  poor  dog  seemed 
quite  stupefied,  and,  instead  of  offering  resistance  to  her 
blows,  simply  hung  down  his  head.  They  rushed  out  at  her, 
but  even  at  their  approach  she  did  not  desist  from  her  cruel 
treatment,  and  they  were  obliged  to  carry  her  off.  She  was 
found  to  be  in  such  a  feverish,  excited  state  that  she  was  at 


42  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

once  put  to  bed,  and  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night  her 
aunt  dared  not  leave  her. 

'Oh I  yes,  she's  a  dear  little  thing,  a  very  dear  little 
thing ! '  sneered  Veronique,  who  was  quite  delighted  at  having 
discovered  a  flaw  in  the  diamond. 

'  I  remember,  now,'  said  Madame  Chanteau, '  that  people 
spoke  to  me  about  her  outbursts  of  temper  when  I  was  in 
Paris.  She  is  quite  jealous — what  a  nasty  thing  !  I  have 
noticed  during  the  six  months  that  she  has  been  with  us 
several  trifling  matters  that  haven't  pleased  me ;  but,  really, 
to  try  to  murder  the  poor  dog  beats  everything ! ' 

When  Pauline  saw  Matthew  the  next  day,  she  threw  her 
trembling  arms  round  him  and,  kissing  him  on  the  nose,  burst 
into  such  a  flood  of  tears  that  they  feared  she  was  going  to 
have  another  hysterical  attack.  In  spite  of  her  repentance, 
she  could  not  restrain  these  outbursts  of  mad  passion.  It 
was  as  though  some  sudden  storm  within  her  sent  all  her 
blood  boiling  and  hissing  into  her  head.  She  had  doubtless 
inherited  this  jealous  violence  from  some  ancestor  on  her 
mother's  side  ;  yet  she  had  a  deal  of  common-sense  for  a  child 
of  ten  years  old,  and  used  to  say  that  she  did  all  she  could  to 
struggle  against  those  outbreaks,  but  without  avail.  They 
made  her  very  miserable,  as  though  they  had  been  the 
symptoms  of  some  shameful  disease. 

At  times,  when  Madame  Chanteau  reproached  her,  she 
replied,  hiding  her  head  against  her  aunt's  shoulder :  '  I  love 
you  so  much,  why  do  you  love  others  ? ' 

Thus,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  and  struggles,  Pauline 
Buffered  a  great  deal  from  Louise's  presence  in  the  house. 
Ever  since  the  other  had  been  expected,  she  had  been 
looking  forward  to  her  coming  with  uneasy  curiosity,  and  now 
she  was  impatiently  counting  the  days  of  her  stay,  all  eager- 
ness for  her  departure.  Yet  she  could  not  help  remarking 
the  charm  of  Louise's  manner,  the  pretty  seductiveness  of  her 
half-childish,  half -womanish  demeanour ;  but,  perhaps,  it  was 
this  very  charm  and  seductiveness  that  troubled  her  and  made 
her  so  angry  when  Lazare  was  present.  For  his  part,  the 
young  man  showed  the  greater  preference  for  Pauline,  and 
even  made  jokes  about  Louise,  saying  that  she  wearied  him 
with  her  grand  airs,  and  that  Pauline  and  he  had  better  leave 
her  alone  to  play  the  fine  lady  by  herself,  while  they  went  off 
somewhere  to  amuse  themselves  as  they  liked.  All  boisterous 
romping  had  ceased  since  Louise's  arrival ;  indoors  they 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  43 

remained  looking  at  pictures,  and  when  they  went  to  the 
shore  they  walked  about  with  irreproachable  decorum.  It 
was  a  fortnight  utterly  wasted. 

One  morning  Lazare  announced  his  intention  of  antici- 
pating his  departure  by  five  days.  He  was  anxious,  he  said, 
to  get  settled  down  in  Paris,  where  he  expected  to  find  one  of 
his  old  chums  at  the  College  of  Caen.  Pauline,  whom  the 
thought  of  the  approaching  separation  had  distressed  for  a 
month  past,  now  strongly  approved  of  her  cousin's  determina- 
tion, and  gleefully  assisted  her  aunt  to  pack  his  trunk.  But 
as  soon  as  he  had  driven  off  in  old  Malivoire's  ancient  berline 
she  rushed  away  to  her  room,  locked  herself  in  it,  and  gave 
herself  up  to  weeping.  Then,  in  the  evening,  she  bore  herself 
very  kindly  and  affectionately  towards  Louise,  and  the  remain- 
ing week  which  the  latter  spent  at  Bonneville  passed  away 
delightfully.  When  the  maid  came  to  fetch  her  home  again, 
explaining  that  the  banker  had  not  been  able  to  leave  his 
business,  the  two  girls  rushed  into  each  other's  arms  and 
swore  eternal  friendship. 

A  year  slowly  passed  away.  Madame  Chanteau  had 
changed  her  mind,  and,  instead  of  sending  Pauline  to  a 
boarding-school,  had  kept  her  at  home  with  herself,  being 
chiefly  moved  to  this  course  by  the  complaints  of  Chanteau, 
who  had  grown  so  used  to  the  girl  that  he  declared  he  could 
not  possibly  get  on  without  her.  But  the  good  lady  did  not 
confess  that  any  such  reason  of  self-interest  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  alteration  of  her  plans  ;  she  talked  about  under- 
taking the  child's  education  herself,  feeling  quite  youthful 
again  at  the  thought  of  reverting  to  her  old  profession  of 
tuition.  Besides,  in  boarding-schools,  said  she,  little  girls 
became  acquainted  with  all  kinds  of  things,  and  she  wished 
her  young  ward  to  be  reared  in  perfect  innocence  and  purity. 
They  hunted  out  from  among  Lazare's  miscellaneous  books 
a  Grammar,  an  Arithmetic,  a  Treatise  on  History,  and  even 
an  Abridgment  of  the  Greek  Mythology;  and  Madame 
Chanteau  resumed  her  functions  of  preceptress.  Lazare's 
big  room  was  turned  into  a  schoolroom;  Pauline  had  to 
resume  her  music  lessons  there,  and  was  put  through  a  severe 
course  of  deportment  to  rid  her  of  all  the  unladylike,  boyish 
ways  into  which  she  had  fallen.  She  showed  herself  very 
docile  and  intelligent,  and  manifested  a  great  willingness  to 
learn,  even  when  the  subject-matter  of  her  lessons  was  dis- 
tasteful to  her.  There  was  only  one  thing  which  seemed  to 


44  TffE  JO  Y  Of  LIFh 

weary  her,  and  that  was  the  catechism.  She  had  not  as  yet 
supposed  that  her  aunt  would  take  the  trouble  to  conduct  her 
to  mass  on  Sundays.  Why  should  she,  indeed  ?  When  she 
lived  in  Paris,  no  one  had  ever  taken  her  to  Saint-Eustache, 
which  was  quite  near  their  house.  It  was  only  with  difficulty 
that  abstract  ideas  found  their  way  into  her  understanding, 
and  her  aunt  had  to  explain  to  her  that  a  well  brought-up 
young  lady's  duty  in  the  country  was  to  set  a  proper  example 
by  showing  herself  to  be  on  good  terms  with  the  priest. 
Religion,  with  her,  had  never  been  anything  more  than  a 
matter  of  appearance  and  respectability,  and  she  looked  upon 
it  as  part  of  a  polite  education,  standing  upon  very  much  the 
same  footing  as  the  art  of  deportment. 

Twice  every  day  the  tide  swept  up  to  the  cliffs  of  Bonneville, 
and  Pauline's  life  passed  on  with  the  great  expanse  of  surging 
water  before  her  eyes.  She  had  given  over  playing  and 
romping,  for  she  no  longer  had  a  companion.  When  she  had 
run  along  the  terrace  with  Matthew,  or  strolled  to  the  end  of 
the  kitchen-garden  with  Minouche,  her  only  pleasure  was  to 
go  and  gaze  at  the  sea,  which  was  full  of  changing  life,  dark 
and  gloomy  in  the  stormy  days  of  winter,  and  gleaming  with 
bright  blues  and  greens  beneath  the  summer  sun.  The 
beneficent  influence  which  seemed  to  flow  from  the  girl's 
presence  in  the  house  manifested  itself  in  another  form  that 
year,  for  Chanteau  received  from  Davoine  a  quite  unlooked- 
for  remittance  of  five  thousand  francs,  which  threats  of  a 
dissolution  of  partnership  had  extorted  from  him.  Madame 
Chanteau  never  missed  going  to  Caen  each  quarter  to  receive 
her  niece's  dividends,  and  when  she  had  deducted  her  expenses 
and  the  sum  which  she  was  allowed  for  Pauline's  board,  she 
invested  the  balance  in  the  purchase  of  further  stock.  On 
returning  home  she  always  took  the  girl  into  her  room,  and, 
opening  the  well-known  drawer  in  the  secretaire,  said  to  her : 
1  There,  you  see,  I  am  putting  this  with  the  other.  Isn't  it 
getting  a  big  heap  ?  Don't  be  at  all  uneasy  about  it.  You 
will  find  it  all  there  when  you  want  it.  There  won't  be  a 
centime  missing.' 

One  fine  morning  in  August  Lazare  suddenly  made  his  ap- 
pearance, bringing  with  him  the  news  of  his  complete  success 
in  his  preliminary  examinations.  He  had  not  been  expected 
for  another  week,  but  he  had  wanted  to  take  his  mother  by 
surprise.  His  arrival  greatly  delighted  them  all.  In  the 
letters  which  he  had  written  home  every  fortnight  he  had 


THE  /OY  OF  LIFE  45 

shown  an  increasing  interest  in  medicine,  and,  now  that  he  was 
amongst  them  again,  he  appeared  to  be  completely  changed. 
He  never  spoke  a  word  about  music,  but  was  perpetually 
chattering  about  his  professors  and  his  scientific  studies,  drag- 
ging them  in  d  propos  of  everything,  even  of  the  dishes  that 
were  served  at  dinner  and  the  direction  in  which  the  wind  was 
blowing.  He  was,  now,  a  prey  to  another  wildly  enthusiastic 
ambition,  for  he  dreamed,  day  and  night,  of  becoming  a 
physician,  whose  wonderful  skill  would  be  trumpeted  through 
the  whole  world.  Pauline,  when  she  had  thrown  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  with  child-like  frankness,  was 
more  surprised  than  the  others  at  this  change  in  him.  It 
almost  grieved  her,  indeed,  that  he  should  have  dropped  all 
his  interest  in  music,  even  as  a  recreation.  Could  it  be 
possible,  she  asked  herself,  that,  when  one  had  really  loved 
anything,  one  could  end  by  caring  nothing  at  all  about  it  ? 
One  day  when  she  asked  him  about  his  symphony,  he  began  to 
make  fun  of  it,  and  told  her  that  he  had  quite  done  with  all 
such  nonsense.  She  felt  quite  sad  at  those  words.  But 
he  also  seemed  to  be  soon  bored  with  her  society,  and 
laughed  with  an  unpleasant  laugh ;  while  his  eyes  and  his 
gestures  spoke  of  a  ten  months'  life  which  could  not  have 
been  related  in  detail  to  little  girls. 

He  had  unpacked  his  trunk  himself,  so  as  to  keep  from  view 
the  books  he  had  brought  home  with  him,  novels  and  medical 
works,  some  of  them  copiously  illustrated.  He  no  longer 
twirled  his  cousin  like  a  top,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do, 
making  her  petticoats  fly  in  a  circle  round  her,  and  he  even 
seemed  quite  confused  at  times  when  she  persisted  in  coming 
into  his  room  and  staying  there.  However,  she  had  scarcely 
grown  at  all  during  his  absence,  and  she  still  looked  him 
frankly  in  the  face  with  her  pure  innocent  eyes,  in  such  wise 
that  by  the  end  of  a  week  his  appearance  of  uneasiness  had 
vanished,  and  they  reverted  to  their  old  intimacy  and  comrade- 
ship. The  fresh  sea-breezes  had  now  swept  the  unhealthy 
influences  of  the  students'  quarter  of  Paris  out  of  Lazare's 
brain,  and  he  felt  once  more  a  child  himself  as  he  romped 
about  with  his  little  cousin,  both  of  them  full  of  vigorous 
health  and  gaiety.  All  the  old  life  began  anew  ;  the  racing 
round  the  table,  the  scampers  with  Matthew  and  Minouche 
through  the  garden,  the  rambles  to  the  Golden  Bay  and  the 
bathing  in  the  open  air.  And  that  year,  too,  Louise,  who  had 
paid  a  visit  to  Bonneville  in  May,  went  to  take  her  holidays 


46  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

with  some  other  friends  at  Rouen ;  and  so  the  others  spent 
two  very  delightful  months,  without  a  single  disagreement 
or  misunderstanding  to  mar  their  enjoyment.  When  October 
came,  Pauline  watched  Lazare  pack  his  trunk  for  his  return 
to  Paris.  He  gathered  together  the  books  he  had  brought 
with  him,  which  had  remained  stowed  away  in  his  cupboard 
without  once  being  opened. 

1  Are  you  going  to  take  them  all  back  with  you  ? '  the 
girl  asked  in  a  melancholy  voice. 

'  Yes,  indeed,'  he  replied.  '  I  shall  want  them  all  for  my 
studies.  You  have  no  notion  how  hard  I  am  going  to  work. 
I  shall  want  every  one  of  them.' 

The  little  house  at  Bonneville  once  more  subsided  into 
lifeless,  monotonous  quietude.  Each  day  passed  in  precisely 
the  same  way  as  its  predecessors,  bringing  the  same  round 
of  incidents  beside  the  ceaseless  rhythm  of  the  ocean.  That 
year,  however,  was  marked  distinctly  for  Pauline.  In  the 
month  of  June  she  took  her  first  communion,  being  then 
twelve  and  a  half  years  old.  By  slow  degrees  a  religious 
feeling  had  taken  possession  of  her,  but  it  was  a  religious 
feeling  loftier  than  the  one  indicated  in  her  catechism,  whose 
answers  she  constantly  repeated  without  understanding  them. 
With  her  reflective  young  mind  she  had  ended  by  picturing 
the  Deity  to  herself  as  a  very  powerful  and  very  wise  ruler, 
who  directed  everything  upon  earth  in  accordance  with 
principles  of  strict  justice ;  and  this  simplified  conception  of 
hers  sufficed  to  put  her  on  a  footing  of  understanding  with 
Abbe"  Horteur.  The  Abb6  was  a  peasant's  son,  and  into  his 
hard  head  nothing  but  the  letter  of  the  law  had  ever  made 
its  way.  He  had  grown  to  be  contented  with  the  observance 
of  outward  ceremonies  and  the  maintenance  of  religious 
practices.  True,  he  bestowed  the  greatest  care  and  thought 
upon  his  own  salvation ;  and  if  his  parishioners  should  finally 
be  damned,  well,  it  would  be  their  own  fault.  For  fifteen  years 
he  had  been  trying  to  terrify  them  without  success,  and  now 
all  that  he  asked  of  them  was  to  come  to  church  on  the 
great  feast  days.  And,  in  spite  of  the  sinful  state  in  which 
it  rotted,  Bonneville  did  come  to  church  pretty  regularly, 
drawn  thither  by  the  influence  of  old  habit.  But  the  priest's 
tolerance  had  degenerated  into  indifference  as  to  the  real 
spiritual  condition  of  his  flock.  Every  Saturday  it  was 
his  custom  to  go  and  play  draughts  with  Chanteau,  although 
the  mayor,  making  his  gout  an  excuse,  never  set  foot  inside 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  47 

the  church.  But  then  Madame  Chanteau  did  all  that  was 
necessary  by  attending  the  services  regularly  and  taking 
Pauline  with  her.  It  was  the  priest's  great  simplicity  and 
frankness  which  by  degrees  won  Pauline  over.  While  living 
in  Paris,  she  had  heard  priests  scoffed  and  sneered  at  as 
hypocrites,  whose  black  robes  concealed  all  manner  of  sins 
and  wickedness.  But  the  priest  of  that  little  sea-side  hamlet 
seemed  to  her  a  thoroughly  genuine,  honest  fellow,  with  his 
heavy  boots  and  sun-browned  neck  and  farmer-like  speech  and 
manner.  One  little  fact  especially  impressed  her.  Abbe 
Horteur  was  strongly  addicted  to  puffing  away  at  a  big 
meerschaum  pipe,  but  he  seemed  to  be  disturbed  by  some 
slight  scruples  as  to  the  propriety  of  such  a  habit,  for  when- 
ever he  wanted  to  smoke  he  always  retired  into  his  garden, 
and  hid  himself  away  in  the  solitude  of  his  lettuce-beds. 
And  it  was  the  anxious  air  with  which  he  hastily  tried  to  put 
his  pipe  out  of  sight  when  he  was  taken  unawares  in  his 
garden  that  touched  the  girl,  though  she  could  scarcely  have 
told  why.  She  took  her  first  communion  in  a  very  serious 
and  reverent  frame  of  mind,  in  company  with  two  other  girls 
from  the  village  and  one  boy.  When  the  priest  came  to  dine 
with  the  Chanteaus  in  the  evening,  he  declared  that  never 
since  he  had  been  at  Bonneville  had  he  seen  a  communicant 
who  had  conducted  herself  with  such  reverence  at  the  Holy 
Table. 

Financially,  the  year  was  not  so  prosperous  for  the 
Chanteaus.  The  rise  in  the  price  of  deal,  for  which  Davoine 
had  been  hoping  for  a  long  time  past,  did  not  take  place,  and 
so  only  bad  news  came  from  Caen,  for,  being  driven  into 
selling  at  a  loss,  the  business  was  in  a  bad  way  indeed.  Thus 
the  family  lived  in  the  most  meagre  fashion,  and  were  only 
able  to  make  their  income  of  three  thousand  francs  cover  the 
necessary  expenses  by  practising  the  most  rigid  economy. 
Lazare,  whose  letters  to  herself  she  kept  strictly  private,  was 
Madame  Chanteau' s  chief  source  of  anxiety.  He  was  appa- 
rently leading  a  life  of  extravagance  and  dissipation,  for  he 
constantly  applied  to  her  for  money.  When  she  went  to  Caen 
in  July  to  receive  Pauline's  dividend,  she  made  a  fierce  attack 
upon  Davoine.  Two  thousand  francs  which  he  had  pre- 
viously given  to  her  had  been  sent  to  Lazare,  and  now 
she  succeeded  in  wringing  another  thousand  francs  out  of 
him,  and  these  she  at  once  despatched  to  Paris.  For  Lazare 
had  written  to  tell  her  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  come 


48  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

home  unless  he  was  provided  with  the  means  of  paying  his 
debts.  Every  day  during  a  whole  week  they  expected  his  arrival 
amongst  them,  but  each  morning  a  letter  came  announcing 
that  his  departure  had  been  put  off  till  the  morrow.  When 
at  last  he  did  actually  start  for  home,  his  mother  and  Pauline 
went  as  far  as  Verchemont  to  meet  him.  They  met  there, 
kissed  each  other  on  the  high-road,  and  walked  home  together, 
followed  by  the  unoccupied  coach,  which  carried  Lazare's 
luggage. 

Lazare's  return  home  that  year  was  by  no  means  so  gay  as 
his  previous  triumphal  surprise.  He  had  failed  to  pass  an 
examination  in  July,  and  was  embittered  against  all  his 
professors,  of  whom  he  fell  foul  throughout  the  evening. 
The  next  morning,  in  Pauline's  presence,  he  threw  his  books 
upon  one  of  the  shelves  in  the  wardrobe,  exclaiming  that  they 
might  lie  there  and  rot.  This  sudden  disgust  for  his  studies 
alarmed  her.  She  heard  him  scoff  bitterly  at  medicine,  and 
deny  its  power  to  cure  even  a  cold.  One  day  when  she 
was  attempting  to  defend  it  from  his  attacks,  in  an  impulse  of 
youthful  belief,  he  sneered  so  bitterly  at  her  ignorance  of 
what  she  was  talking  about  that  his  remarks  brought  a  hot 
blush  to  her  cheeks.  But,  all  the  same,  he  said,  he  had 
resigned  himself  to  being  a  doctor;  as  well  that  kind  of 
humbug  as  any  other :  everything  was  equally  stupid  at 
bottom.  Pauline  grew  quite  indignant  and  angry  at  the 
new  ideas  which  he  had  brought  home  with  him.  Where  had 
he  got  them  from  ?  From  those  wicked  books  he  read,  she 
was  quite  sure ;  but  she  dared  not  discuss  the  matter  fully, 
held  back  as  she  was  by  her  own  ignorance,  and  feeling  ill  at 
ease  amidst  her  cousin's  sneers  and  innuendoes  and  pretences 
that  he  could  not  tell  her  everything.  The  holidays  glided 
away  in  perpetual  misunderstandings  and  bickerings.  In 
their  walks  together  the  young  man  seemed  to  be  bored, 
and  declared  that  the  sea  was  wearisome  and  monotonous. 
As  a  means  of  killing  time,  however,  he  had  taken  to  writing 
verses,  and  composed  sonnets  on  the  sea  with  great  elabora- 
tion and  fastidiousness  of  rhymes.  He  declined  to  bathe, 
saying  that  he  had  found  that  cold  baths  disagreed  with  his 
constitution,  for,  in  spite  of  his  denial  of  all  value  to  medical 
science,  he  now  indulged  in  the  most  sweeping  and  authorita- 
tive opinions,  condemning  or  curing  people  with  a  word. 
About  the  middle  of  September,  when  they  were  expecting 
Louise's  arrival,  he  suddenly  expressed  his  intention  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  49 

returning  to  Paris,  saying  that  he  wished  to  prepare  for  his 
examination  again.  He  really  thought  that  his  life  would  he 
unbearable  between  two  little  girls,  and  wished  to  get  back 
to  the  Latin  Quarter.  Pauline's  manner  to  him,  however, 
became  gentler  and  more  submissive  the  more  he  did  to  vex 
her.  When  he  was  rude  and  sought  to  distress  her,  she 
merely  looked  at  him  with  those  tender,  smiling  eyes  of  hers, 
whose  soft  influence  was  able  to  soothe  even  Ohanteau  when 
he  groaned  and  moaned  amidst  one  of  his  attacks  of  gout. 
She  thought  that  her  cousin  was  in  some  way  out  of  health, 
for  he  looked  upon  life  like  a  weary  old  man. 

The  day  before  his  departure  Lazare  manifested  such 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  Bonneville  that  Pauline 
burst  into  tears. 

'  You  don't  love  me  any  more  now  1 ' 

'  Don't  be  a  goose  1  Haven't  I  got  to  make  my  way  in 
life  ?  A  big  girl  like  you  to  be  crying  !  The  idea  of  it  I  ' 

Then  she  summoned  up  her  courage  again  and  smiled 
as  she  said  to  him :  '  Work  hard  this  year,  so  that 
when  you  come  back  again  we  may  all  be  quite  happy  and 
satisfied.' 

'  Oh  I  there's  no  good  in  working  hard  I  Their  examina- 
tions are  nothing  but  foolery.  I  didn't  pass  because  I  didn't 
care  to.  I  am  going  to  hurry  through  with  it  all  now,  since 
my  lack  of  fortune  prevents  me  from  living  a  life  of  ease  and 
leisure,  which  is  the  only  satisfactory  life  a  man  can  lead.' 

In  the  early  part  of  October,  after  Louise  had  returned  to 
Caen,  Pauline  again  resumed  her  lessons  with  her  aunt. 
The  curriculum  of  her  third  year's  studies  embraced 
bowdlerised  French  History,  and  Greek  Mythology  as 
'  adapted  to  the  use  of  young  persons.'  But  the  girl,  who 
had  shown  such  diligence  in  the  previous  year,  now  seemed 
to  have  become  quite  sluggish  and  dull.  Sometimes  she 
even  went  to  sleep  over  her  tasks,  and  her  face  flushed  with  a 
hot  surging  of  blood.  A  mad  outburst  of  anger  against 
V6ronique,  who  didn't  like  her,  she  declared,  made  her  so  ill 
that  she  had  to  stop  in  bed  for  a  couple  of  days.  Then  came 
changes  in  herself  which  disquieted  and  distressed  her. 
About  Christmas-time  Pauline's  health  was  such  as  to  alarm 
Madame  Chanteau.  But  that  worthy  woman,  from  ridiculous 
notions  of  her  own,  was  largely  to  blame,  as  she  refused  to 
take  Doctor  Cazenove's  advice  and  talk  to  the  girl  as  she 
should  have  done.  And  in  the  result  Pauline,  at  an  important 

E 


50  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

period  in  her  youth,  narrowly  escaped  being  stricken  with  an 
attack  of  brain-fever. 

When  she  was  well  again  and  resumed  her  studies,  she 
began  to  affect  an  enthusiastic  interest  in  the  Greek 
Mythology.  She  shut  herself  up  in  Lazare's  big  room — 
which  was  still  used  as  a  schoolroom — and  had  to  be 
sent  for  at  meal-times.  When  she  came  down,  she  seemed 
buried  in  thought  and  quite  indifferent  to  all  that  went  on. 
Upstairs,  however,  the  Mythology  lay  quite  neglected  on  the 
table,  for  it  was  in  poring  over  all  the  medical  books  which 
Lazare  had  left  in  the  old  wardrobe  that  she  now  spent  her 
time.  There  were  a  good  many  of  those  works,  and,  though  at 
first  she  failed  to  understand  all  the  technical  terms  she  met 
with,  she  plodded  on  through  anatomy  and  physiology,  and  even 
pathology  and  clinical  medicine.  Thus  she  not  only  learnt — 
in  all  simplicity  and  purity  of  mind,  saved  from  all  vicious 
thought  by  a  healthy  craving  for  knowledge — many  things  of 
which  girls  of  her  age  are  usually  ignorant ;  but  her  researches 
extended  to  the  symptoms  and  treatment  of  all  sorts  of  disease 
and  ailment.  Superfluous  subjects  she  passed  by  unheeded. 
She  seemed  to  know  intuitively  what  knowledge  was  neces- 
sary to  enable  her  to  be  of  assistance  to  those  who  suffered. 
Her  heart  melted  with  pity  as  she  read  on,  and  she  gave  her- 
self up  again  to  her  old  dream  of  learning  everything  so  that 
she  might  be  able  to  cure  all  that  went  amiss. 

Knowledge  rendered  Pauline  grave  and  thoughtful.  She 
felt  surprised  and  annoyed  at  her  aunt's  silence  towards  her, 
which  had  resulted  in  such  terror  and  serious  illness.  And 
when  one  day  Madame  Chanteau  did  see  fit  to  refer  to  the 
matter,  the  girl  quietly  intimated  that  she  needed  no  informa- 
tion. At  this  the  other  was  alarmed,  and  Pauline  then  told 
her  all  about  Lazare's  books.  There  was  a  scene,  but  the  gJrl, 
with  her  outspoken  frankness,  quite  routed  her  aunt.  '  How 
can  there  be  harm  in  knowledge  of  the  normal  conditions  of 
life  ?  '  she  asked.  Her  enthusiasm  was  perfectly  mental,  and 
never  did  a  single  wrong  thought  disturb  the  pure  depths  of 
her  clear,  child-like  eyes.  On  the  same  shelf  with  the  medical 
books  she  had  found  novels  which  had  repelled  her  and  bored 
her,  so  that  she  had  thrown  them  aside  after  glancing  at  the 
first  few  pages.  Her  aunt,  growing  more  and  more  discon- 
certed, though  she  had  recovered  a  little  from  her  first  shock, 
contented  herself  with  locking  the  wardrobe  and  taking  away 
the  key.  But  a  week  later  it  was  there  again,  and  Pauline 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  51 

indulged  herself  in  reading  at  intervals,  by  way  of  recreation, 
either  a  chapter  on  neurosis,  with  her  mind  fixed  the  while 
upon  her  cousin,  or  one  relating  to  the  treatment  of  gout, 
with  the  idea  of  undertaking  her  uncle's  cure. 

Each  day  increasing  love  of  life  and  its  various  manifes- 
tations displayed  itself  in  Pauline  and  made  of  her,  to  use 
her  aunt's  phrase,  a  general  mother.  Everything  that  lived, 
everything  that  suffered,  aroused  in  her  a  feeling  of  active 
tenderness  and  won  from  her  abundant  kindliness  and 
thoughtful  care.  She  had  now  forgotten  all  about  Paris,  and 
began  to  feel  as  though  she  had  been  born  in  that  wild  spot 
under  the  pure  breezes  from  the  sea.  She  had  developed,  too, 
into  a  well-formed  young  woman,  and  with  her  healthy  mind 
and  love  of  knowledge  it  was  with  delight  that  she  found  her- 
self reaching  full  growth  and  sunny  ripeness.  On  her  part 
there  was  a  full  acceptance  of  life,  life  beloved  in  all  its 
functions,  welcomed  with  the  triumphant  greeting  of  vigorous 
health  and  soundness  of  nature. 

That  year  Lazare  remained  for  six  months  without 
writing  home,  with  the  exception,  that  is,  of  a  very  brief  note 
now  and  then  to  tell  them  he  was  all  right.  Then  all  at  once 
he  began  to  deluge  his  mother  with  letters.  He  had  again 
been  plucked  at  the  November  examination,  and  had  become 
more  disgusted  than  ever  with  the  study  of  medicine,  which 
dealt  with  too  gloomy  matters  for  his  taste,  so  that  he  had 
now  enthusiastically  turned  to  chemistry.  He  had  chanced 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  illustrious  Herbelin,  whose 
discoveries  were  then  revolutionising  the  science,  and  had 
entered  his  laboratory  as  an  assistant,  without  owning,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  relinquishing  medicine.  But  his  letters 
were  soon  full  of  a  new  scheme,  which  he  at  first  mentioned 
somewhat  timidly,  but  gradually  grew  wildly  enthusiastic 
about.  It  was  a  plan  for  turning  sea- weed  to  wonderful  profit, 
by  the  adoption  of  some  new  methods  and  reagents  discovered 
by  the  illustrious  Herbelin.  Lazare  dwelt  upon  the  great 
probability  of  the  scheme's  success ;  the  great  chemist's 
assistance ;  the  ease  with  which  raw  material  could  be 
obtained,  and  the  very  small  expense  that  would  be  incurred 
for  plant.  In  the  end  he  frankly  expressed  his  disinclination 
to  be  a  doctor,  and  jokingly  declared  that  he  should  prefer  to 
sell  remedies  to  the  sick  rather  than  to  kill  them  off  himself. 
He  finished  all  his  letters  by  recapitulating  the  prospects  of 
speedily  acquiring  a  large  fortune,  and  mentioned  as  an 

E   2 


52  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

additional  lure  to  his  parents  that,  if  they  would  consent  to 
his  new  plans,  lie  should  remain  with  them,  as  he  proposed 
setting  up  his  works  quite  close  to  Bonneville. 

The  months  slipped  away,  and  Lazare  did  not  come  home 
for  the  vacation.  All  through  the  winter  he  continued  to 
unfold  the  details  of  his  new  scheme  in  long  closely-written 
letters,  which  Madame  Chanteau  used  to  read  aloud  in  the 
evening  after  dinner.  One  night  in  May  they  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  solemn  family  council  to  discuss  the  matter 
seriously,  for  Lazare  had  written  to  ask  for  a  categorical  reply. 
Veronique  was  bustling  about  the  room,  taking  off  the  dinner- 
cloth  and  putting  the  red  one  on  the  table  in  its  place. 

'  He  is  his  grandfather  over  again,  always  running  after 
Borne  fresh  scheme  and  doing  no  good  at  anything,'  declared 
Madame  Chanteau,  glancing  up  at  the  former  journeyman- 
carpenter's  masterpiece,  whose  presence  on  the  mantel- shelf 
was  a  perpetual  source  of  annoyance  to  her. 

'  Well,  he  certainly  doesn't  get  his  flighty  disposition 
from  me,  for  I  detest  all  change,'  sighed  Chanteau  between  a 
couple  of  groans,  as  he  lay  back  in  his  arm-chair,  where  he 
was  just  recovering  from  another  attack  of  gout.  '  But  you 
yourself,  my  dear,  you  know  you  are  a  little  given  to 
restlessness.' 

His  wife  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  though  to  imply  that 
all  her  actions  were  dictated  and  carried  out  by  reason  and 
common-sense.  Then  she  added  slowly :  '  Well,  what  are 
we  to  say  ?  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  write  to  him  and  tell 
him  that  he  may  have  his  own  way.  I  wanted  to  see  him  in 
the  magistracy,  and  I  wasn't  over  well  pleased  at  his  being  a 
doctor ;  but  now  he  has  got  down  to  being  an  apothecary ! 
Still,  if  he  comes  back  home  again  and  makes  a  lot  of  money, 
that  will  be  better  than  nothing.' 

It  was  really  this  hope  of  money-making  which  decided 
her.  She  began  to  indulge  in  new  dreams  for  the  son  she 
was  so  fond  of.  She  foresaw  him  very  wealthy,  the  owner  of 
a  fine  house  at  Caen,  a  councillor-general,  perhaps  even  a 
deputy.  Chanteau,  who  had  no  opinion  either  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  was  absorbed  in  his  own  sufferings,  left  his  wife 
to  see  after  all  the  interests  of  the  family.  Pauline,  in  spite  of 
her  surprise  and  silent  disapprobation  of  her  cousin's  continual 
changes,  thought  that  he  had  better  be  allowed  to  try  his  luck 
at  the  grand  new  scheme  which  he  had  got  into  his  head. 

'  At  any  rate,  we  shall  be  all  together,'  she  said. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  53 

'  And  it's  precious  little  good  that  Monsieur  Lazare  seems 
to  be  doing  in  Paris,'  V6ronique  ventured  to  add.  '  It  will  be 
better  for  him  to  come  and  live  quietly  here  with  us.' 

Ma,dame  Chanteau  nodded  assent.  She  again  took  up 
the  letter  which  she  had  received  that  morning. 

'He  here  goes  into  the  financial  side  of  his  scheme,' 
she  said.  Then  she  read  the  letter,  commenting  on  it  as  she 
proceeded,  Sixty  thousand  francs  would  be  required  for  erect- 
ing the  works.  In  Paris  Lazare  had  met  one  of  his  old  Caen 
friends,  Boutigny,  who  was  now  selling  wine  on  commission 
there.  Boutigny  was  very  enthusiastic  about  the  new  scheme, 
and  had  offered  to  invest  thirty  thousand  francs  in  the  business. 
He  would  make  an  admirable  partner,  one  whose  practical 
business  habits  would  ensure  the  success  of  the  undertaking. 
There  would,  however,  still  remain  thirty  thousand  francs  to 
be  borrowed  somewhere,  as  Lazare  was  anxious  to  have  half 
the  business  in  his  own  hands. 

'  As  you  hear,'  continued  Madame  Chanteau,  '  he  wants 
me  to  apply  in  his  name  to  Thibaudier.  It  is  a  good  idea, 
and  I  am  sure  Thibaudier  will  let  him  have  the  money. 
Louise  is  not  very  well  just  now,  and  I  have  thought  of 
going  to  Caen  to  ask  her  to  stay  with  ua  for  a  week.  As  I 
shall  see  her  father,  I  will  mention  the  matter  to  him.' 

A  cloud  passed  before  Pauline's  eyes,  and  her  lips  quivered 
as  she  drew  them  tightly  together.  Veronique  was  standing 
at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  wiping  a  tea-cup  and  watching 
her  closely. 

'I  had,  indeed,  thought  of  another  way,'  said  Madame 
Chanteau  in  a  low  voice ;  '  but  as  there  is  always  some  risk  in 
a  business  enterprise,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  to  say 
nothing  about  it.' 

Then,  turning  to  the  young  girl,  she  added :  '  Yes,  my 
dear,  you  might  have  lent  the  thirty  thousand  francs  to  your 
cousin  yourself.  You  couldn't  find  a  better  investment,  and 
you  would  very  likely  get  twenty-five  per  cent,  interest,  for 
your  cousin  would  share  his  profits  with  you,  and  it  quite 
grieves  me  to  think  of  a  lot  of  money  going  into  an  outsider's 
pocket.  But  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  run  any  risk  with  your 
fortune.  It  is  a  sacred  deposit.  It  is  quite  safe  upstairs,  and 
I  will  restore  it  to  you  unimpaired.' 

Pauline  grew  pale  as  she  listened  to  her  aunt's  words ;  and 
a  struggle  went  on  within  her.  She  had  inherited  a  some- 
what avaricious  disposition :  Quenu's  and  Lisa's  love  of 


54  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

money.  In  the  pork-butcher's  shop  she  had  been  taught  to 
reverence  its  power,  and  to  guard  against  the  want  of  it. 
Then,  too,  her  aunt  had  so  frequently  called  her  attention  to 
the  drawer  in  the  secretaire  where  her  little  fortune  was 
locked  up,  that  the  thought  of  seeing  it  gradually  squandered 
by  her  erratic  cousin  irritated  her.  So  she  kept  silent, 
though  she  was  also  troubled  by  a  vision  of  Louise  handing  a 
great  bag  of  money  to  Lazare. 

'Even  if  you,  my  dear,  should  wish  it,  I  shouldn't,' 
Madame  Chanteau  continued ;  and,  addressing  her  husband, 
she  added  :  '  It  is  quite  a  matter  of  conscience,  isn't  it  ? ' 

'  Her  money  belongs  to  her,'  said  Chanteau  with  a  deep 
groan  as  he  tried  to  move  his  leg.  '  If  things  were  to  turn 
out  badly,  we  should  be  called  upon  to  make  good  the  loss. 
No!  no!  we  mustn't  do  that.  Thibaudier  will  be  glad  to 
lend  it,  I  have  no  doubt.' 

Then  Pauline,  in  an  impulse  of  affection,  cried : 

'  No  !  no !  please  don't  grieve  me  like  this.  I  certainly 
ought  to  lend  the  money  to  Lazare  myself.  Isn't  he  my 
brother  ?  It  would  be  very  unkind  of  me  if  I  refused  to  let 
him  have  it.  How  could  you  suppose  that  I  could  have  any 
objection  ?  Give  him  the  money  at  once,  aunt ;  give  him 
all  of  it ! ' 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  effort  she  had  just  made  ; 
then  her  face  broke  out  into  a  smile,  while  she  remained  in 
a  state  of  confusion  between  her  regret  at  having  hesitated 
for  a  moment  and  a  miserable  fear  that  the  money  would 
be  lost.  She  had  to  struggle  a  little  while  against  the 
protest  of  her  relations,  who  were  certainly  honest  enough 
to  show  her  the  risks  she  would  run. 

'  Come  and  kiss  me  then,  my  dear,'  her  aunt  finished  by 
saying,  yielding  to  the  girl's  tears.  '  You  are  a  very  good 
girl,  and  you  shall  lend  Lazare  your  money,  since  it  would 
vex  you  so  much  if  he  did  not  take  it.' 

'  Come  and  kiss  me,  too,  dear,  won't  you  ? '  added  her 
uncle.  They  cried  and  kissed  all  round  the  table.  Then,  as 
Pauline  went  out  of  the  room  to  call  Matthew,  and  Ve"ronique 
brought  in  the  tea,  Madame  Chanteau  exclaimed,  wiping  the 
tears  from  her  eyes :  '  It's  a  great  consolation  to  find  her 
generous-minded.' 

'  Of  course ! '  growled  the  servant ;  '  why,  she  would  strip 
her  chemise  off  her  back  rather  than  let  that  other  one  have 
a  chance  of  giving  anything  ! ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  55 

It  was  a  week  later,  on  a  Saturday,  that  Lazare  returned 
to  Bonneville.  Doctor  Cazenove,  who  had  been  invited  to 
dine  with  the  Chanteaus,  brought  the  young  man  along  with 
him  in  his  gig.  They  found  Abbe"  Horteur,  who  was  also 
dining  there  that  evening,  playing  draughts  with  Chanteau, 
who  was  lying  back  in  his  invalid's  chair.  He  had  been 
suffering  for  three  months  past  from  the  attack  from  which 
he  was  now  recovering.  It  had  been  more  painful  and  violent 
than  any  previous  one,  and  now,  in  spite  of  the  terrible 
twinges  he  constantly  felt  in  his  feet,  he  considered  himself  in 
a  state  of  Paradise.  His  skin  was  scaling,  and  the  swellings 
had  almost  disappeared.  Ve"ronique  was  busy  roasting  some 
pigeons  in  the  kitchen,  and  every  time  the  door  opened  he 
sniffed  the  appetizing  odour,  overcome,  again,  by  his  irre- 
pressible greediness,  on  which  subject  the  priest  began  to 
remonstrate  with  him. 

'  You  are  not  attending  to  the  game,  Monsieur  Chanteau 
Now,  be  advised  by  me,  and  be  very  careful  about  what  you 
eat  this  evening.  Kich  food  is  bad  for  you  in  your  present 
condition.' 

Louise  had  arrived  the  previous  day.  When  she  and 
Pauline  heard  the  Doctor's  gig  approaching,  they  both  rushed 
wildly  into  the  yard.  But  it  was  only  his  cousin  whom 
Lazare  appeared  to  notice,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  an 
expression  of  amazement. 

'  What !  can  this  really  be  Pauline  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  I.' 

'  But,  good  gracious,  what  a  lot  you  must  have  eaten  to 
have  grown  like  that !  Why,  you  are  quite  big  enough  to 
get  married  now  1 ' 

She  blushed,  and  laughed  gaily,  her  eyes  glistening  with 
pleasure  at  seeing  him  take  such  notice  of  her.  He  had  left 
her  a  mere  chit,  a  raw  schoolgirl  in  a  pinafore,  and  now  he 
saw  her  again  as  a  well- grown  young  woman,  whose  figure 
showed  to  advantage  in  her  white  rose-sprayed  summer  gown. 
However,  she  became  quite  serious  as  she  examined  him  in 
turn.  She  thought  he  was  looking  much  older,  he  stooped, 
his  laugh  no  longer  sounded  young,  and  his  face  twitched 
nervously  at  times. 

'  By  the  way,'  said  Lazare,  '  I  must  really  treat  you  a 
little  more  ceremoniously  now.  How  do  you  do,  partner  ? ' 

Pauline's  blush  assumed  a  deeper  tint ;  the  word  '  partner* 
made  her  feel  intensely  happy.  When  her  cousin  had  kissed 


56  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

her,  he  might  well  kiss  Louise  afterwards.  She  experienced 
no  feeling  of  jealousy  now. 

It  was  a  delightful  dinner.  Chanteau,  alarmed  by  the 
Doctor's  threats,  ate  with  moderation.  Madame  Chanteau 
and  the  priest  discussed  magnificent  schemes  for  the  ag- 
grandizement of  Bonneville  when  the  sea-weed  business 
jhould  have  enriched  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock  before  they  separated.  As  Lazare  and  Pauline  were 
about  to  quit  each  other,  at  the  doors  of  their  rooms,  the 
young  man  said  to  her  laughingly : 

'  So  young  ladies,  when  they  have  grown  up,  no  longer 
wish  one  good-night  ? ' 

'  Why,  yes,  they  do,'  she  cried;  and,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  she  kissed  him  full  on  the  lips  with  all  her 
old  girlish  impulsiveness. 


m 

Two  days  later  a  very  low  tide  laid  the  rocks  quite  bare. 
Lazare,  brimming  over  with  the  wild  enthusiasm  which 
always  filled  him  at  the  outset  of  any  of  his  new  schemes,  was 
impatient  to  be  off  to  the  sea-weed.  So  away  he  hurried, 
with  bare  legs  and  just  a  canvas  jacket  over  his  bathing- 
costume.  Pauline  went  with  him  to  share  in  his  investiga- 
tions. She,  too,  wore  a  bathing-costume  and  the  heavy 
shoes  which  she  used  when  bound  on  shrimping  expeditions. 
When  they  had  got  about  half  a  mile  from  the  cliffs,  and  had 
reached  the  centre  of  the  spreading  tract  of  sea-weed,  still 
streaming  with  the  water  of  the  ebbing  tide,  the  young  man's 
enthusiasm  burst  forth  as  if  he  were  only  now  discovering 
that  immense  crop  of  marine  plants  over  which  he  and 
Pauline  had  rambled  a  hundred  times  before. 

'  Look  1  look  1  '  he  cried  ;  '  what  money  we  shall  make 
out  of  it  all ;  and  nobody  has  ever  thought  of  making  any  use 
of  it  before  I ' 

Then  he  began  to  point  out  to  her  the  different  species 
with  gleeful  pedantry ;  the  zosterias,  of  a  delicate  green  and 
similar  to  long  hair,  stretching  far  away  in  spreading 
lawns ;  the  ulvse,  with  large  lettuce-like  leaves  of  glaucous 
transparency ;  the  serrated  fuci  and  the  bladder-bearing  fuoi, 
which  grew  in  such  thick  profusion  that  they  enveloped  the 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  57 

rocks  like  thick  moss.  As  they  followed  the  tide,  too, 
they  came  upon  species  of  greater  size  and  stranger  forms, 
such  as  various  kinds  of  laminaria,  especially  that  known  as 
Neptune's  Belt,  a  girdle-like  strip  of  greenish  leather,  with 
wrinkled  edges,  that  looked  as  though  it  were  made  to  circle 
some  giant's  waist. 

'  What  wealth  there  is  going  to  waste  here  I '  exclaimed 
Lazare.  '  How  stupid  people  are  1  In  Scotland  folks  are 
sensible  enough  to  make  some  use  of  the  ulvee  at  any  rate,  for 
they  turn  it  into  food  and  eat  it.  We  here  just  use  the  fuci 
to  pack  fish  with,  and  the  zosteria  to  stuff  mattresses ;  and  as 
for  the  rest,  it  is  simply  turned  into  manure  ;  and  all  that 
science  does  is  to  burn  a  few  cartloads  to  extract  soda  from 
the  residue.' 

Pauline,  in  the  water  to  her  knees,  felt  perfectly  happy 
amidst  all  the  sharp  saltness ;  and  her  cousin's  explanations 
interested  her  extremely. 

'  So  do  you  intend  to  distil  all  this  ?  *  she  asked. 

Lazare  was  very  much  amused  with  the  word  '  distil.' 

'  Yes ;  distil  it,  if  you  like  to  call  it  so.  But  the  process 
is  a  very  complicated  one,  as  you'll  see.  However,  mark  my 
words.  We  have  subjugated  terrestrial  vegetation  to  our 
use ;  we  eat  vegetables  and  fruit,  and  avail  ourselves  in  other 
ways  of  trees  and  plants,  don't  we  ?  Well,  perhaps  we  shall 
find  that  we  can  turn  marine  vegetation  to  still  greater 
profit  when  we  seriously  try  to  do  so.' 

Meantime  they  both  enthusiastically  gathered  specimens, 
loading  themselves  and  going  so  far  out  that  they  became 
drenched  on  their  way  back.  Lazare  went  on  pouring 
forth  explanations,  repeating  all  that  his  master,  Herbelin, 
had  told  him.  The  ocean  was  a  vast  reservoir  of  chemical 
compounds,  and  the  sea-weed  was  ever  condensing  in  its 
tissues  the  salts  contained  in  the  water.  The  problem  they 
had  to  solve  was  how  to  extract  from  the  sea-weed  all  its 
useful  components  at  small  cost.  He  talked  of  taking  the 
ashes  which  resulted  from  combustion — the  impure  soda  of 
commerce — of  sifting  them,  and  finally  extracting  in  a  state 
of  perfect  purity  the  various  iodides  and  bromides  of  sodium 
and  potassium,  the  sulphate  of  soda,  and  the  various  salts  of 
iron  and  manganese,  so  as  to  turn  every  particle  of  the 
material  to  profitable  use.  He  waxed  particularly  enthusiastic 
over  the  fact  that  by  the  system  which  the  illustrious 
Herbelin  had  devieed  nothing  that  could  be  of  the  slightest 


58  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

use  would  be  lost.  So  there  was  an  immense  fortune  before 
them. 

1  Good  gracious  I  what  a  mess  you're  in  I '  cried  Madame 
Chanteau,  when  they  got  home  again. 

4  Never  mind  about  that,'  said  Lazare  gaily,  as  he  flung 
his  load  of  sea- weed  on  to  the  middle  of  the  terrace.  '  We 
are  bringing  you  back  five-franc  pieces.' 

The  next  day  one  of  the  Verchemont  peasants  was  sent 
with  a  cart  to  bring  back  a  whole  load  of  weed,  and  the 
experiments  were  commenced  in  the  big  room  on  the  second 
floor.  Pauline  was  appointed  assistant.  For  a  month  they 
went  quite  mad  over  the  subject.  The  room  was  soon 
crammed  with  dried  weeds,  with  jars  containing  floating 
sprays,  and  instruments  of  all  sorts  of  odd  shapes.  There 
was  a  microscope  on  the  table,  and  the  piano  was  hidden 
beneath  retorts  and  flasks  ;  whilst  the  wardrobe  groaned  with 
the  weight  of  technical  works  and  collections  that  were 
perpetually  being  referred  to.  The  experiments,  made  with 
small  quantities  of  material  with  the  most  scrupulous  care, 
gave  encouraging  results.  Herbelin's  cold  system  was  based 
upon  the  discovery  that  certain  bodies  crystallise  at  very  low 
temperatures,  and  the  only  thing  required  was  to  obtain  the 
necessary  lowness  of  temperature,  whereupon  each  particular 
substance  deposited  itself  in  crystals  successively,  and  thus 
separate  from  others.  Lazare  burned  the  weeds  in  a  pit,  mixed 
the  ashes  with  water,  and  subjected  them  to  the  necessary 
temperature,  which  he  obtained  by  a  refrigerative  method 
based  upon  the  rapid  evaporation  of  ammonia.  He  would 
afterwards  have  to  carry  out  these  operations  on  a  large 
scale  and  transfer  them  from  the  laboratory  to  proper  works, 
observing  careful  economy  in  the  method  of  manufacture  and 
the  installation  of  the  requisite  plant. 

On  the  day  when  he  succeeded  in  extracting  five  distinct 
substances  from  his  crude  liquor,  the  room  rang  with  cries 
of  triumph.  They  had  obtained  quite  a  surprising  proportion 
of  bromide  of  potassium,  and  would  be  able  to  supply  that 
popular  remedy  as  plentifully  as  bread.  Pauline  danced 
wildly  round  the  table ;  and  then  flew  downstairs  and  burst 
into  the  dining-room,  where  her  uncle  was  reading  his  news- 
paper and  her  aunt  was  marking  table-napkins. 

'  There  1 '  she  cried, '  you  can  be  as  ill  as  you  like  now, 
and  we  can  give  you  as  much  bromide  of  potassium  as  ever 
you'll  want ! ' 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  59 

Madame  Chanteau,  who  had  been  suffering  lately  from 
nervous  attacks,  had  been  put  upon  a  bromide  r&gime  by 
Doctor  Cazenove.  She  smiled  as  she  answered : 

'Have  you  got  enough  to  cure  everyone? — for  everyone 
oeems  to  be  out  of  sorts  just  now.' 

The  vigorous  young  girl,  whose  face  beamed  with  robust 
health,  spread  out  her  arms  as  though  she  were  casting  the 
remedy  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth. 

'  Yes,  yes ! '  said  she,  '  we  shall  make  enough  for  the 
whole  world.  Neurosis  is  done  for  I ' 

After  inspecting  the  coast  Lazare  decided  that  he  would 
build  his  works  near  the  Golden  Bay.  It  answered  all  the 
necessary  requirements.  It  had  a  wide  spreading  beach, 
flagged  as  it  were  with  flat  rocks,  which  facilitated  the  gather- 
ing of  the  weed;  there  was  good  communication  from  it 
by  the  Verchemont  Eoad ;  land  was  cheap ;  the  necessary 
materials  were  at  hand;  and  it  was  sufficiently  isolated 
without  being  remote.  Pauline  joked  about  the  name  which 
they  had  given  to  the  bay  on  account  of  its  gleaming  sand. 
They  did  not  think  then,  said  she,  that  they  would  ever  find 
real  gold  there,  as  they  were  going  to  do  now.  They  made  a 
capital  beginning,  bought  about  five  acres  of  barren  land  at 
a  low  price,  and  obtained  the  Prefect's  authorisation  after 
only  two  months'  delay.  Then  the  building  was  commenced. 
Boutigny  had  already  arrived  on  the  scene.  He  was  a  little, 
ruddy-faced  man  of  thirty,  extremely  common  in  appearance, 
and  the  Chanteaus  did  not  take  to  him  at  all.  He  declined 
to  live  at  Bonneville,  saying  that  he  had  found  a  very  con- 
venient house  at  Verchemont ;  and  the  family's  coldness 
towards  him  increased  when  they  heard  that  he  had  brought 
there  a  woman  whom  he  had  probably  picked  up  in  some  low 
haunt  in  Paris.  Lazare  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  what  he 
called  their  provincial  narrow-mindedness.  She  was  a  very 
pleasant  sort  of  person,  he  thought,  and  had  shown  a  good 
deal  of  devotion  in  consenting  to  bury  herself  in  such  a 
wilderness ;  but  he  made  no  further  protest,  on  Pauline's 
account.  What  was  expected  from  Boutigny  was  active 
surveillance  and  intelligent  organisation  of  the  work,  and  in 
this  respect  he  showed  himself  to  be  all  that  could  be  desired. 
He  was  never  idle,  and  had  a  perfect  genius  for  manage- 
ment ;  under  his  direction  the  building  soon  sprang  up. 

For  the  next  four  months,  while  the  work  for  the  in- 
stallation of  the  machinery  was  going  on,  the  Golden  Bay 


60  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Factory,  as  they  called  it,  became  the  goal  of  the  young  people's 
daily  walk.  Madame  Chanteau  sometimes  went  with  them, 
but  Matthew  was  more  often  their  only  companion.  He 
soon  grew  tired,  dragged  his  big  feet  along  wearily  till  they 
reached  the  works,  when  he  would  lie  down,  with  his  tongue 
hanging  out,  panting  like  a  blacksmith's  bellows.  The  dog 
was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  bathed  now,  and  would 
rush  into  the  sea  whenever  a  stick  was  thrown  for  him  to 
fetch,  showing  sufficient  intelligence  to  turn  hia  back  to  the 
waves  when  he  seized  the  stick,  so  as  to  avoid  swallowing 
the  salt  water.  At  each  visit  to  the  works  Lazare  used  to 
hurry  on  the  contractors,  while  Pauline  made  practical 
remarks  which  occasionally  showed  a  good  deal  of  common- 
sense. 

The  apparatus,  constructed  after  designs  made  by  Lazare 
himself,  had  been  ordered  at  Caen,  and  workmen  came  thence 
to  set  it  up.  Boutigny  was  beginning  to  show  a  good  deal  of 
uneasiness  at  the  rapid  rate  at  which  the  estimates  increased. 
Why  couldn't  they  have  commenced  with  as  small  a  building 
as  possible,  and  with  merely  the  absolutely  indispensable 
appliances,  he  asked.  Why  launch  out  into  all  those 
intricate  workshops  and  rooms  and  all  that  elaborate 
machinery  for  a  business  which  it  would  have  been  more 
prudent  to  have  started  on  a  small  scale  ?  They  might  gra- 
dually have  extended  it  as  they  gained  some  experience  of 
the  conditions  under  which  it  ought  to  be  carried  on  and  the 
demand  there  might  be  for  the  output.  But  Lazare  was 
carried  away  by  his  enthusiastic  dreams,  and,  if  he  had  been 
allowed  to  have  his  own  way  entirely,  he  would  have  added 
to  the  works  a  magnificent  faQade  looking  towards  the  sea 
and  proclaiming  the  grandeur  of  his  plans  to  the  limitless 
horizon.  Each  visit  only  seemed  to  increase  his  feverish 
hopes.  So,  what  was  the  use  of  being  stingy,  especially  as 
they  were  going  to  make  such  a  fortune  out  of  the  place  ? 
Thus  the  walk  back  was  delightfully  gay.  Poor  Matthew 
used  to  lag  far  behind  them  ;  and  at  times  Pauline  and  Lazare 
would  hide  behind  a  wall,  as  delighted  as  little  children 
when  the  dog,  suddenly  finding  himself  alone  and  fearing 
that  he  was  lost,  began  hunting  about  for  them  in  a  state  of 
comical  alarm. 

Every  evening  on  their  return  they  were  greeted  with  the 
same  question :  '  Well,  how's  it  all  getting  on  ?  Are  you  well 
pleased  ? ' 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  61 

The  answer,  too,  was  always  the  same. 

'  Oh,  yes  ;  but  it  is  not  finished  yet.' 

This  was  a  period  of  close  intimacy  between  the  two 
young  people.  Lazare  showed  a  warm  affection  for  Pauline, 
which  a  feeling  of  gratitude  for  the  money  she  had  advanced 
served  to  strengthen.  Again,  too,  he  gradually  lost  sight  of 
her  sex  and  regarded  her  as  a  boyish  companion,  a  younger 
brother,  whose  good  points  became  more  manifest  every  day. 
She  was  so  sensible  and  courageous,  so  cheerful  and  pleasant, 
that  he  could  not  refrain  from  looking  on  her  with  an  uncon- 
fessed  feeling  of  respect  and  esteem,  which  he  tried  to  conceal 
even  from  himself  by  chaffing  and  teasing  her.  In  the  most 
unconcerned  and  casual  way  she  had  told  him  of  her  private 
studies  and  her  aunt's  horror,  and  he  had  experienced  a  mo- 
ment's wonder  and  embarrassment  as  the  girl,  who  knew  so 
much  already,  turned  her  big  candid  eyes  upon  him.  After 
that,  however,  a  perfect  understanding  seemed  to  exist  between 
them,  and  he  talked  freely  and  openly,  as  they  worked  together 
at  their  common  studies.  She  was  continually  asking  him 
questions,  in  which  she  appeared  to  have  no  other  object  than 
the  simple  acquisition  of  information,  so  that  she  might 
make  herself  useful  to  him.  And  she  often  amused  him  by 
the  many  gaps  which  she  showed  in  her  knowledge,  by  the 
extraordinary  mixture  of  information  with  which  she  was 
crammed.  When  she  showed  herself  to  be  labouring  under 
some  ludicrous  misconception,  Lazare  broke  out  into  such 
peals  of  laughter  that  she  grew  quite  angry  with  him  and  told 
him  that  it  would  be  much  better  if,  instead  of  laughing  at 
her,  he  would  show  her  where  she  was  wrong ;  and  the  matter 
generally  terminated  in  a  lesson. 

Pauline,  however,  was  changing;  she  often  felt  a  vague 
uneasiness.  At  times,  when  Lazare  pulled  her  about  in  his 
brotherly  fashion,  her  heart  would  beat  excitedly.  The  woman 
whom  they  had  forgotten  all  about  was  awaking  within  her 
amid  the  pulsing  of  her  blood.  She  often  believed  that  she 
was  on  the  point  of  falling  into  some  serious  illness,  for  she 
grew  very  feverish,  and  could  not  sleep.  In  the  day-time, 
too,  she  felt  weary  and  listless,  but  she  made  no  complaints 
to  her  aunt. 

One  evening,  after  dinner,  however,  she  began  to  talk 
about  the  absurdity  and  annoyance  of  dreams.  How  tiresome 
it  was  that  one  was  compelled  to  lie  on  one's  back,  quite 
defenceless  and  helpless,  a  prey  to  all  sorts  of  idiotic  ideas 


62  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

and  fancies !  But  what  vexed  her  most,  she  said,  was  the 
absolute  loss  and  annihilation  both  of  the  will  and  body  power. 
Then  her  cousin,  with  his  pessimistic  views,  also  fell  foul 
of  dreams,  as  disturbing  the  happiness  and  serenity  of  utter 
unconsciousness.  Her  uncle,  however,  proceeded  to  dis- 
tinguish between  different  sorts  of  dreams,  saying  that  he 
liked  to  have  pleasant  ones,  while  he  detested  nightmares. 
Pauline  spoke  so  strongly  on  the  subject  that  Madame 
Chanteau,  in  surprise,  began  to  question  her.  Then  she 
stammered  and  hesitated,  saying  that  her  dreams  were  about 
all  sorts  of  ridiculous  things,  trifles  too  vague  to  remember. 
And  she  was  speaking  the  truth  in  this  respect,  for  the 
incidents  of  her  dreams  remained  obscure.  She  saw  no  one 
in  them  ;  and  all  she  felt  was  like  the  kiss  of  the  sea-breezes 
as  they  flew  at  her  window  in  the  summer-time. 

Every  day  Pauline's  affection  for  Lazare  seemed  to 
increase.  And  this  was  not  merely  the  instinctive  awakening 
of  womanhood  after  seven  years'  brotherly  companionship ; 
she  also  felt  a  need  of  devoting  herself  to  somebody,  and 
illusion  showed  him  to  her  as  the  worthiest  in  intelligence 
and  strength  of  all  she  knew.  By  slow  degrees  her  old 
sisterly  feeling  was  being  transformed  into  love,  with  sweet 
touches  of  budding  passion,  secret  thrills,  furtive  longings, 
all  the  fond  delights  that  attend  the  heart's  start  upon  its 
journey  of  affection,  beneath  the  promptings  of  Nature. 
Lazare,  protected  by  his  former  free-and-easy  life  in  the 
students'  quarter  of  Paris,  had  no  curiosity  to  satisfy,  and 
still  looked  upon  her  as  a  sister,  never  as  an  object  of  desire  ; 
while  she,  on  the  other  hand,  all  virginal  purity  in  this  lonely 
spot  where  she  knew  no  other  young  man,  grew  to  worship 
him  more  and  more,  and  to  bestow  herself  upon  him  entirely. 
From  morning  till  evening,  when  they  were  together,  she 
seemed  to  derive  life  from  his  presence,  and  her  eyes  ever 
sought  his,  as  she  eagerly  busied  herself  to  serve  him. 

About  this  time  Madame  Chanteau  became  quite  aston- 
ished at  Pauline's  piety.  She  saw  her  go  twice  to  confession. 
Then  all  at  once  she  seemed  to  take  a  dislike  to  Abbe  Horteur, 
and  for  three  Sundays  even  refused  to  go  to  mass,  only 
resuming  her  attendance  at  the  church  subsequently  in  order 
that  she  might  not  displease  her  aunt.  She  gave  no  explana- 
tion of  her  conduct ;  but  she  had  probably  been  offended  and 
displeased  by  something  the  Abb6  had  said  to  her,  for  he  was 
not  a  man  of  refined  speech.  It  was  at  this  period  that 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  63 

Madame  Chanteau,  with  her  keen  maternal  instinct,  discovered 
Pauline's  growing  love  for  Lazare ;  but  she  said  nothing 
about  it  to  anyone,  not  even  to  her  husband.  The  knowledge 
of  it  came  upon  her  as  a  surprise,  for  until  now  affection  and 
possible  marriage  between  the  young  people  had  not  entered 
into  her  plans  or  thoughts.  Like  Lazare,  she  had  gone  on 
regarding  her  ward  as  a  mere  schoolgirl.  Now,  she  told 
herself,  it  was  her  duty  to  look  sharply  after  them;  but  she 
did  not  do  so,  really  feeling  very  little  interest  or  anxiety  about 
a  love  which  her  son  did  not  appear  to  return. 

When  the  hot  days  of  August  came  round,  Lazare  sug- 
gested one  evening  that  they  should  have  a  bathe  next 
day,  on  their  way  to  the  works.  Madame  Chanteau  accom- 
panied them  on  this  occasion,  in  spite  of  the  terrible  heat. 
She  sat  down  on  the  burning  shingle,  with  Matthew  by  her 
side,  sheltering  herself  beneath  her  sunshade,  under  which 
the  dog  tried  to  stretch  his  head. 

'  Hallo  !  where's  she  off  to  ? '  all  at  once  cried  Lazare,  as 
he  saw  Pauline  disappear  behind  a  rock. 

'  She  is  going  to  get  ready,  of  course ! '  said  Madame 
Chanteau.  '  Turn  your  head  away.  It  isn't  decorous ;  and 
she  won't  like  it.' 

He  seemed  quite  astonished,  then  looked  at  his  mother, 
and  turned  his  back  to  the  rock.  Finally,  he  also  began  to 
undress,  without  saying  a  word. 

'  Are  you  ready  ? '  he  shouted,  at  last.  '  What  a  time  you 
are! ' 

Pauline  ran  lightly  towards  him,  with  a  laugh  which 
sounded  a  little  forced.  They  had  never  bathed  together 
since  Lazare's  return  home.  She  wore  a  swimming-costume, 
made  in  a  single  piece  and  fastened  about  her  waist  by  a  belt. 
With  her  lissom  figure  she  looked  like  a  Florentine  statue. 
Her  arms  and  legs  were  bare,  and  her  small  feet,  white  as  a 
child's,  were  shod  with  sandals. 

1  Well/  said  Lazare,  '  shall  we  go  as  far  as  the  Pico- 
chets  ? ' 

'  Yes,  to  the  Picochets,'  she  answered. 

'  Don't  go  far  1 '  cried  Madame  Chanteau.  '  I  shall  feel 
so  frightened  if  you  do.' 

But  they  were  already  in  the  water.  The  Picochets  were 
a  group  of  rocks  which  the  high  tide  did  not  quite  cover,  and 
lay  about  half  a  mile  off.  The  young  people  swam  along 
leisurely,  side  by  side,  like  a  pair  of  friends  out  for  a  walk  on 


64  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

some  smooth  straight  road.  Matthew  followed  them  for  a 
little  way,  but,  when  he  saw  them  still  going  forward  without 
sign  of  returning,  he  swam  back  to  the  shore  and  shook  the 
water  out  of  his  ooat,  splashing  the  drops  all  over  Madame 
Chanteau.  Unnecessary  exertion  of  this  kind  did  not  com- 
mend itself  to  his  lazy  nature. 

'  You  are  a  sensible  animal,'  said  the  old  lady.  '  It  is 
quite  wicked  of  them  to  go  risking  their  lives  in  this  way.' 

She  could  only  just  discern  the  heads  of  Pauline  and 
Lazare  bobbing  up  in  the  water  like  tufts  of  sea- weed  moving 
with  the  waves.  There  was  a  pleasant  swell,  and  they 
skimmed  along  with  a  gentle  undulatory  motion,  talking 
quietly  and  examining  the  sea-weed  that  floated  past  them 
in  the  transparent  water.  Then  Pauline,  beginning  to  feel 
a  little  tired,  turned  herself  upon  her  back  and  floated, 
gazing  the  while  at  the  sky,  like  one  lost  amidst  the  blue 
immensity.  She  still  retained  all  her  old  love  for  the  sea 
that  was  now  so  softly  cradling  her.  She  loved  its  sharp 
fresh  breath  and  its  pure  cold  waves ;  and  she  yielded  to  it 
entirely,  happy  in  its  ceaseless  rippling  against  her  flesh, 
and  revelling  in  the  exertion  of  swimming,  which  kept 
down  the  throbbing  of  her  heart.  Suddenly,  however,  she 
gave  a  slight  cry.  Her  cousin  glanced  towards  her  uneasily, 
and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

'  I'm  afraid,'  she  said,  '  that  the  bodice  of  my  costume  has 
split.  I  swung  my  left  arm  out  too  quickly.' 

Then  they  both  laughed.  Pauline  had  begun  to  swim 
leisurely  again,  and  was  smiling  a  little  uneasily  as  she 
contemplated  the  accident  to  her  costume.  A  shoulder-strap 
had  given  way.  Her  cousin  merrily  told  her  to  feel  in  her 
pocket,  to  see  if  she  had  not  some  pins  about  her.  Soon 
afterwards,  however,  they  reached  the  Picochets,  whereupon 
Lazare  mounted  on  a  ledge  of  rock,  as  it  was  the  custom  to 
rest  and  draw  breath  before  returning  to  the  shore.  But 
Pauline  remained  in  the  water  and  continued  swimming 
round  the  rocks. 

'  Aren't  you  coming  up  ? ' 

'  No.    I'd  rather  stay  where  I  am.' 

Lazare  thought  it  was  a  mere  whim  of  hers,  and  felt 
vexed  with  her.  It  was  very  foolish,  he  remarked.  If  she 
didn't  come  out  of  the  water  and  rest  a  little,  she  would 
break  down  on  the  journey  back.  But  she  persisted  in  stay- 
ing where  she  was,  and  did  not  even  answer  her  cousin,  as 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  65 

with  the  water  up  to  her  chin,  she  still  swam  on  gently, 
seeking  to  hide  the  snowy  whiteness  of  her  naked  shoulder, 
which  shone,  vague  and  milky,  like  the  pearliness  of  a 
shell.  Towards  the  open  sea  the  rocks  were  hollowed  out 
into  a  kind  of  grotto,  where  they  had  often  played  at  being 
Robinson  Crusoes.  Far  away  on  the  other  side  Madame 
Chanteau,  sitting  on  the  beach,  looked  like  a  black  insect. 

'  Take  your  own  course,  then,  you  foolish,  obstinate  girl !  * 
cried  Lazare,  springing  into  the  water  again.  '  I  sha'n't  help 
you,  remember  that.' 

Then  they  slowly  started  on  their  return  to  the  shore. 
They  sulked  with  each  other  and  would  not  speak.  When 
Lazare  heard  Pauline  beginning  to  pant,  he  told  her  that 
she  had  better  turn  upon  her  back  again  and  float,  but  she 
did  not  appear  to  hear  him.  The  rent  in  her  costume  was 
widening.  At  the  slightest  attempt  to  turn,  her  breast  would 
have  burst  clear  out  of  the  water.  Lazare,  at  last,  apparently 
began  to  understand  things,  and,  seeing  how  tired  she  was, 
and  fearing  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  reach  the  shore 
without  assistance,  swam  close  to  her,  resolutely  deter- 
mined upon  bearing  her  up.  She  tried  to  escape  him, 
however,  and  to  continue  swimming  by  herself.  But  at  last 
she  was  obliged  to  yield  to  him  ;  and  when  they  reached  the 
shore  again,  Lazare  was  holding  her  in  a  close  embrace. 

Madame  Chanteau  had  rushed  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
water  in  a  terrible  state  of  alarm,  while  Matthew  stood  in 
the  sea  up  to  his  stomach,  barking  loudly. 

'  How  wicked  and  foolish  of  you !  I  told  you  that  you 
were  going  too  far  1 ' 

Pauline  had  fainted.  Lazare  carried  her  on  to  the  sand 
as  though  she  were  a  child.  And  all  at  once  she  heaved  a 
deep  sigh  and  opened  her  eyes.  As  soon  as  she  recognised 
her  cousin,  she  burst  out  sobbing  and  nearly  choked  him  with 
her  hysterical  embrace,  as  she  kissed  him  full  on  the  lips. 
She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing;  she  was  acting 
under  the  influence  of  a  sudden  impulse  of  love,  which  the 
consciousness  of  her  escape  from  death  had  sent  thrilling 
through  her. 

'  Oh  !  how  good  you  are,  Lazare  !     Oh  !  how  I  love  you ! ' 

He  shook,  almost  unbalanced  by  the  impetuosity  of  his 
cousin's  kiss.  While  Madame  Chanteau  was  dressing  her, 
he  went  off  of  his  own  accord.  The  walk  back  to  Bonneville 
was  slow  and  painful,  as  both  the  young  people  were  thoroughly 


66  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

worn  out  with  fatigue.  Madame  Ohanteau  walked  between 
them,  thinking  that  the  time  had  come  for  decisive  action. 

There  were  other  causes  for  uneasiness  in  the  family. 
The  works  at  Golden  Bay  were  now  finished,  and  for  the  last 
week  they  had  been  testing  the  apparatus,  with  the  most 
deplorable  results.  Lazare  was  obliged  to  confess  that  he 
had  made  some  serious  mistakes  in  several  portions  of  it. 
He  thereupon  set  off  to  Paris  to  consult  his  master,  Herbelin, 
and  came  back  in  a  very  discouraged  frame  of  mind.  Every- 
thing would  have  to  be  made  over  again.  The  celebrated 
chemist  had  introduced  great  improvements  into  his  method, 
which  necessitated  many  alterations  in  the  appliances.  But 
then  the  sixty  thousand  francs  were  entirely  spent,  and 
Boutigny  absolutely  refused  to  advance  another  sou.  From 
morning  till  night  he  talked  sarcastically  and  bitterly  of  the 
foolish  squandering  of  money  over  fads,  with  the  pertinacity 
of  a  practical  man  whose  warning  has  turned  out  correct. 
Lazare  felt  inclined  to  murder  him.  But  what  troubled  him 
more  than  anything  else  was  the  thought  of  Pauline's  thirty 
thousand  francs  lying  lost  in  that  abyss  of  disaster.  His 
honour  and  pride  revolted  against  the  idea.  It  was  impossible 
to  think  of  it.  More  money  must  be  got  somewhere.  They 
could  not  abandon  an  undertaking  which  would  surely  bring 
them  millions  eventually. 

'  Don't  make  yourself  unhappy  about  it,'  said  his  mother, 
as  she  saw  him  becoming  quite  ill  with  the  worry  of  obtaining 
more  capital.  '  We  haven't  got  so  low  yet  as  not  to  be  able 
to  raise  a  few  thousand-franc  notes.' 

Madame  Chanteau  was  working  out  a  plan  of  her  own. 
The  idea  of  a  marriage  between  Pauline  and  Lazare  struck  her 
as  being  very  feasible  and  desirable.  There  was  only  some  nine 
years'  difference  between  their  ages,  and  that  was  a  thing  one 
saw  every  day.  A  marriage,  too,  would  be  such  a  convenient 
way  of  settling  matters.  Lazare  would  be  working  for  his 
wife,  and  need  not  trouble  himself  any  further  about  the  debt ; 
moreover,  he  would  be  able  to  take  from  Pauline's  fortune 
whatever  further  sums  he  wanted.  At  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  it  is  true,  Madame  Chanteau  felt  some  trifling  scruples 
about  the  course  she  meditated,  having  a  lurking  fear  of  the 
possibility  of  an  utter  catastrophe,  and  the  complete  ruin  of 
her  ward.  But  she  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of  such  an  ending 
to  the  great  scheme.  Wasn't  it  beyond  doubt  that  Lazare 
was  a  very  clever  fellow  who  knew  perfectly  well  what  he 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  67 

was  doing  ?  He  would  make  Pauline  very  wealthy  one  of 
these  days,  and  it  was  really  she  who  would  benefit  by  the 
marriage.  It  mattered  nothing  that  Lazare  was  without 
fortune  at  present.  He  was  a  fortune  in  himself. 

The  marriage  was  quickly  agreed  upon.  One  morning 
Madame  Chanteau  went  into  Pauline's  room  and  sounded  the 
young  girl,  who,  with  smiling  tranquillity,  confessed  her  love 
for  her  cousin.  Then  her  aunt  told  her  she  must  pretend 
to  be  tired,  and  in  the  afternoon  went  alone  with  her  son 
to  the  works.  As  they  came  back  she  unfolded  to  him  her 
scheme,  telling  him  of  his  cousin's  affection  for  him,  the  con- 
venience and  suitability  of  the  proposed  marriage,  and  the 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  it.  At  first  he  was  quite 
amazed.  He  had  never  entertained  such  a  notion.  The  girl 
was  quite  a  child,  wasn't  she  ?  Then  he  became  moved, 
and  finally  told  his  mother  that  he  certainly  liked  Pauline  very 
much,  and  would  do  all  she  wished. 

As  they  came  back  into  the  house  they  found  Pauline 
laying  the  table,  for  want  of  something  else  to  do.  Her 
uncle,  with  his  newspaper  laying  on  his  knee,  was  watching 
Minouche,  who  was  fastidiously  licking  her  fur. 

1  Well,  so  there's  a  probability  of  a  wedding,  I  hear,'  said 
Lazare,  concealing  his  emotion  beneath  an  affectation  of 
gaiety. 

Pauline  stood  quite  still,  holding  a  plate  in  her  hands,  and 
blushed  deeply,  unable  to  say  a  word. 

'  Who  is  going  to  be  married  ? '  asked  her  uncle,  suddenly, 
as  though  he  had  just  awoke. 

His  wife  had  told  him  all  about  it  in  the  morning,  but  the 
dainty  way  in  which  the  cat  was  licking  herself  had  absorbed 
his  attention.  However,  he  quickly  remembered. 

'  Ah  1  yes,  of  course  ! '  said  he. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  young  people  mischievously,  while  a 
sudden  painful  twinge  in  his  right  foot  made  his  lips  twitch. 
Pauline  had  gently  put  the  plate  down,  and,  turning  to 
Lazare,  she  said : 

'  If  you  are  willing,  I'm  quite  willing  too.' 

'  There !  that's  settled,  then.  Give  each  other  a  kiss,' 
exclaimed  Madame  Chanteau,  hanging  up  her  straw  hat. 

The  girl  went  up  to  Lazare,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him. 
He,  laughing,  took  them  within  his  own,  and  began  to  joke. 

'  You  have  deserted  your  doll,  then  ?  And  this  is  why 
you  hide  yourself  away  so  that  one  may  not  even  see  you 

F2 


68  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

washing  your  finger-tips  !  And  it  is  poor  Lazare  that  you 
have  selected  for  your  victim  ! ' 

'  Oh  !  aunt,  do  make  him  give  over,  or  I  shall  go  away  ! ' 
murmured  Pauline,  looking  painfully  confused  and  trying  to 
make  her  escape. 

Little  by  little  he  drew  her  closer  to  him,  playing  with 
her  as  in  the  old  days  of  their  boy-like  chumship.  Then  she 
suddenly  planted  a  smacking  kiss  on  his  cheek,  which  he 
returned  chancewise  on  her  ear.  But  some  secret  thought 
seemed  to  cast  a  gloom  over  him,  and  he  said  sadly  : 

'  It's  a  sorry  bargain  you  are  making,  my  poor  child.  You 
don't  know  what  a  very  old  man  I  am.  Still,  if  you  really 
wish  it ' 

The  dinner  was  wildly  gay.  They  all  talked  at  once,  and 
made  all  kinds  of  plans  for  the  future,  as  though  they  were 
now  meeting  for  the  first  time.  Ve"ronique,  who  had  just 
come  into  the  room  as  the  engagement  was  being  announced, 
went  back  into  the  kitchen  and  banged  the  door  after  her 
without  saying  a  single  word.  When  the  dessert  was  laid 
upon  the  table,  their  noisy  gaiety  toned  down  a  little  and 
they  began  to  talk  about  matters  more  seriously.  Madame 
Chanteau  said  that  the  marriage  could  not  take  place  for 
another  two  years,  for  she  should  prefer  them  to  wait  till 
Pauline  was  fully  of  age,  so  that  there  might  be  no  risk  of 
any  suspicion  that  any  advantage  had  been  taken  of  her 
youth.  Pauline  looked  aghast  at  this  announcement  of  two 
years'  delay,  but  her  aunt's  sense  of  honour  touched  her 
deeply,  and  she  got  up  from  her  chair  to  go  and  kiss  her.  A 
date  for  the  wedding  was  fixed  ;  the  two  young  people  would 
have  to  learn  to  be  patient,  and  meanwhile  they  would  also 
be  earning  the  first  portion  of  their  future  millions.  No 
doubt  at  all  was  felt  as  to  their  ultimate  great  wealth. 

'  Pull  out  the  drawer,  aunt  dear,'  said  Pauline, '  and  give 
him  as  much  money  as  ever  he  wants.  It  is  as  much  his 
as  mine  now.' 

But  Madame  Chanteau  would  not  hear  of  this. 

'  No,  indeed.  Not  a  single  sou  of  it  shall  be  spent  un- 
necessarily. You  know  you  can  fully  trust  me  for  that,  and  I 
would  rather  have  my  right  hand  cut  off  than  that  you  should 
be  a  loser.  You  want  ten  thousand  francs  for  the  works. 
Well,  those  ten  thousand  francs  I  will  give  you,  and  the  rest 
I  will  keep  tightly  locked  up.  Not  a  sou  of  it  shall  be  touched.' 

'With  ten  thousand  francs,'  said  Lazare,  'I  am  quite 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  69 

certain  of  success.  All  the  heavy  expenses  are  already  paid, 
and  it  would  really  be  wicked  not  to  go  on  with  it  now.  You 
will  see  presently.  And  you,  my  dear,  I  will  have  you  dressed 
in  a  robe  of  cloth-of-gold  like  a  queen  on  our  wedding-day.' 

Their  happiness  and  gaiety  were  increased  by  the  un- 
expected arrival  of  Doctor  Cazenove.  He  had  just  been 
attending  to  the  injuries  of  a  fisherman,  who  had  crushed  his 
fingers  underneath  a  boat,  and  the  family  insisted  upon  his 
remaining  with  them  and  having  some  tea.  The  great  news 
did  not  appear  to  surprise  him ;  but,  as  he  heard  the  Chanteaus 
launching  out  enthusiastically  in  praise  of  the  sea-weed 
scheme,  he  glanced  uneasily  at  Pauline,  and  said : 

'  Yes,  no  doubt  the  idea  is  ingenious  and  worth  a  trial. 
But  a  safe  investment  in  stock  is  better.  If  I  were  you,  I 
should  prefer  being  happy  at  once  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way ' 

He  stopped  short  on  seeing  a  shadow  pass  over  the  young 
girl's  face,  and  the  warm  affection  which  he  felt  for  her  induced 
him  to  speak  against  his  own  convictions. 

'  But  money  is  very  pleasant  to  have ;  so,  perhaps,  you 
had  better  make  a  lot  of  it.  And  I  will  certainly  come  and 
dance  at  the  wedding.  I  will  dance  the  Zambuco  of  the 
Caribbeans,  a  dance  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  heard  of.  You 
stretch  out  your  arms  like  the  sails  of  a  windmill,  and  then 
keep  striking  your  thighs  as  you  dance  round  a  captive, 
while  he  is  being  cut  up  and  cooked  by  the  women.' 

The  months  flew  past.  Pauline  regained  all  her  old 
placid  cheerfulness.  Doubt  and  uncertainty  were  the  only 
things  that  could  seriously  trouble  her  candid  and  frank 
nature.  The  confession  of  her  love  and  the  fixing  of  a  date 
for  her  marriage  with  Lazare  seemed  to  have  put  an  end 
to  the  disturbing  feelings  that  had  assailed  her.  Her  engage- 
ment caused  little  difference  in  her  relations  with  Lazare ; 
they  both  led  their  old  life  of  familiar  companionship ;  he 
ever  busily  engaged  in  the  advancement  of  his  great  scheme, 
and  quite  protected  from  sudden  passion  by  his  former 
adventures  in  Paris,  and  she  so  simple  and  pure-minded  in 
her  virginity  and  knowledge  that  she  was  shielded  as  by  a 
double  wall  of  protection. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  they  would  take  each  other  by  the 
hand,  in  that  big  disorderly  room,  and  lovingly  smile  at  one 
another ;  and  while  they  read  together  some  treatise  on  Marine 
Botany  their  heads  would  perhaps  rest  tenderly  against  each 
other ;  or,  as  they  examined  some  flask  brown  with  bromine 


7<5  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

or  some  purple  specimen  of  iodine,  Pauline  would  lean  gently 
against  Lazare,  or  bend  down  over  the  instruments  that 
littered  the  table  and  piano  and  bring  her  face  near  to  his,  or 
ask  him  to  lift  her  up  so  that  she  might  reach  the  topmost 
shelf  of  the  cupboard.  But  at  those  moments  there  was 
nothing  beyond  decorous  permissible  tenderness,  such  aa 
might  have  been  manifested  openly  before  the  members  of 
their  family.  Madame  Chanteau  herself  said  thafr  they 
behaved  in  an  extremely  proper  and  sensible  manner;  and 
when  Louise  arrived,  with  all  her  pretty  airs  and  graces, 
Pauline  did  not  exhibit  the  slightest  jealousy. 

A  whole  year  passed  away  in  this  fashion.  The  works 
were  now  in  operation,  and  the  worries  which  arose  kept 
Pauline  and  Lazare  from  thinking  about  anything  else.  The 
new  appliances  had  been  set  up  after  considerable  difficulty, 
and  the  first  results  seemed  excellent.  Certainly  the  yield 
was  slight,  but  when  the  system  should  be  brought  to 
greater  perfection,  and  all  care  and  energy  should  be  shown, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  they  would  quickly  reach  an  enor- 
mous output.  Boutigny  had  already  found  great  openings 
for  their  products ;  more  than  they  could  supply,  indeed. 
Success  and  fortune  seemed  ensured,  and  this  apparent 
certainty  carried  them  off  their  heads.  From  their  former 
despondency  they  now  rushed  to  the  other  extreme,  casting 
money  by  handfuls  into  extensions  and  alterations  of  the 
works,  and  never  feeling  the  least  doubt  that  they  would  find 
it  all  again,  melted  into  a  huge  golden  ingot.  Every  fresh 
outlay  seemed  only  to  urge  them  on  to  another. 

On  the  first  few  occasions  Madame  Chanteau  refused  to 
take  any  money  from  the  drawer  without  notifying  Pauline. 

'  There  are  some  payments  to  be  made  on  Saturday,  my 
dear,1  she  would  say.  '  Will  you  come  with  me  upstairs,  and 
settle  what  scrip  we  shall  sell  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  there's  no  occasion  for  that,  aunt,'  Pauline  would 
reply.  '  You  can  settle  that  yourself.' 

'  No,  my  dear,  you  know  that  I  never  do  anything  without 
consulting  you.  It  is  your  money.' 

In  time,  however,  Madame  Chanteau  grew  less  rigid  in 
this  respect.  One  evening  Lazare  told  her  of  a  debt  which 
he  had  concealed  from  Pauline,  five  thousand  francs  spent 
on  copper  pipes  which  had  not  even  been  used.  She  had  only 
just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  drawer  with  her  niece,  so  she 
went  upstairs  again  by  herself,  on  seeing  the  despair  her  son 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  71 

was  in,  and  took  out  the  extra  five  thousand  francs,  on  a 
solemn  promise  that  he  would  repay  them  out  of  the  first  profits, 

But  from  that  day  her  old  strictness  departed,  and  she 
began  to  take  scrip  out  of  the  drawer  without  consulting 
Pauline.  She  found  it  a  little  unpleasant  and  humiliating, 
too,  at  her  age,  to  be  continually  consulting  a  mere  child, 
and  she  rebelled  against  doing  so.  The  money  would  all  be 
paid  back  to  Pauline ;  and,  even  if  it  did  belong  to  her,  that 
was  no  reason  why  one  should  never  be  able  to  make  the 
slightest  move  without  obtaining  her  permission.  So  from 
this  time  she  ceased  to  insist  on  Pauline  accompanying  her 
on  her  visits  to  the  secretaire.  Pauline  was  really  happier 
in  consequence,  for,  in  spite  of  her  kind  and  generous  heart, 
those  constant  withdrawals  of  money  perturbed  her.  Her 
common-sense  began  to  warn  her  of  the  probability  of  a 
catastrophe,  and  the  feelings  of  prudence  and  economy  which 
she  had  inherited  from  her  mother  were  now  roused  in 
opposition  to  all  the  reckless  expenditure.  At  first  she  was 
surprised  at  Madame  Chanteau's  silence,  for  she  felt  sure 
that  the  money  was  going  the  same  way  as  before,  with  the 
one  difference  that  she  was  not  being  consulted  about  it. 
After  a  little  time,  however,  she  felt  that  she  preferred  it  to 
be  so.  It,  at  any  rate,  saved  her  the  grief  of  seeing  the 
bundle  of  papers  grow  smaller  at  each  visit  to  the  drawer. 
Between  herself  and  her  aunt  there  was  but  a  quick  exchange 
of  glances  at  certain  times ;  a  steady  anxious  gaze  on  the 
girl's  part,  when  she  guessed  some  further  abstraction,  and 
a  vacillating  look  from  Madame  Chanteau,  who  felt  irritated 
that  she  should  be  obliged  to  turn  away  her  head.  Thus 
bitterness  and  dislike  began  to  arise  between  them. 

That  year,  unfortunately,  Davoine  became  a  bankrupt. 
Though  the  disaster  had  been  foreseen,  it  was  none  the  less  a 
terrible  blow  for  the  Chanteaus.  They  still  had  their  three 
thousand  francs  a  year  arising  from  their  investments  in 
stock;  and  all  that  they  were  able  to  save  from  the  wreck 
of  the  timber  business,  some  twelve  thousand  francs,  was 
at  once  invested,  so  as  to  bring  their  total  income  up  to 
three  hundred  francs  a  month.  In  the  second  fortnight 
Madame  Chanteau  was  driven  to  take  fifty  francs  of  Pauline's 
money.  The  butcher  from  Verchemont  was  waiting  with  his 
bill,  and  she  could  not  send  him  away  without  paying  him. 
Then  there  were  fifty  francs  wanted  to  pay  for  a  washing- 
machine,  and  ten  more  for  potatoes,  and  even  fifty  sous  for 


72  THE  fOY  OF  LIFE 

fish.  She  came  to  the  point  of  supplying  the  needs  of 
Lazare  and  the  works  in  wretched  little  sums,  which  she 
doled  out  day  by  day.  Towards  the  end  of  each  month  she 
was  often  to  be  seen  stealthily  disappearing  and  then 
coming  back  again  with  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  from  which  she 
reluctantly  drew  forth  sou  after  sou,  to  make  up  the  amount 
of  a  bill.  The  habit  quickly  grew  upon  her,  and  she  soon 
depended  entirely  upon  the  contents  of  the  drawer,  helping 
herself  to  the  money,  whenever  occasion  required,  without 
any  hesitation.  When  she  opened  the  lid  of  the  secretaire, 
however,  that  old  piece  of  furniture  would  give  a  slight 
creak  which  used  to  affect  her  unpleasantly.  The  stupid  old 
thing,  she  would  say  to  herself.  To  think  that  during  all 
those  years  she  had  never  been  able  to  buy  a  decent  desk  1 
The  poor  old  secretaire,  which,  when  it  had  contained  a 
fortune,  had  seemed  to  impart  an  air  of  wealth  and  gaiety 
to  the  house,  now  only  irritated  her,  and  she  looked  upon 
it  as  the  abode  of  every  evil,  diffusing  misfortune  from 
every  chink. 

One  evening  Pauline  ran  into  the  house  from  the  yard, 
crying,  '  The  baker's  here  !  He  says  we  owe  him  three  days' 
bread,  two  francs  and  eighty-five  centimes.' 

Madame  Chanteau  began  to  fumble  in  her  pockets. 

'  I  shall  have  to  go  upstairs,'  she  murmured. 

'  Stay  here,'  said  the  young  girl  carelessly.  '  I  will  go  for 
you.  Where's  your  money  ? ' 

'  No,  no,  I'll  go  myself.  You  would  never  find  it.  It  is 
put  away.' 

Madame  Chanteau  stammered  out  these  words,  and  she 
and  Pauline  exchanged  a  silent  glance,  at  which  they  both 
grew  pale.  There  was  a  moment  of  painful  hesitation,  and 
then  the  aunt  went  upstairs,  quite  shivering  with  suppressed 
anger,  and  feeling  sure  that  her  ward  knew  perfectly  well 
where  she  was  going  to  get  those  two  francs  eighty-five 
centimes.  Why,  she  asked  herself,  had  she  always  insisted 
upon  her  presence  when  taking  the  money  from  the  drawer  ? 
The  memory  of  her  old  scrupulous  probity  quite  angered 
her  now,  convinced  as  she  was  that  her  niece  was  follow- 
ing her  in  imagination,  and  watching  her  as  she  opened  the 
drawer,  took  out  the  money,  and  then  closed  the  secretaire 
again.  After  she  had  come  downstairs  and  paid  the  baker, 
her  anger  vented  itself  in  an  attack  upon  the  girl. 

'  Good  gracious  !  what  a  state  your  dress  is  in  !     What 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  73 

have  you  be  doing  with  yourself  ?  You  have  been  drawing 
water  for  the  kitchen,  surely.  Eh  ?  Be  good  enough  to  let 
Ve"ronique  do  her  own  work,  if  you  please.  Upon  my 
word,  I  believe  you  have  gone  out  of  your  way  on  purpose  to 
make  a  mess  of  yourself.  You  seem  to  have  no  idea  that 
your  clothes  cost  money.  I  don't  get  so  much  for  your  keep 
that  it  is  easy  to  make  both  ends  meet ! ' 

And  so  she  went  on.  Pauline  had  at  first  made  some 
slight  attempt  to  defend  herself,  but  she  soon  refrained,  and 
listened  to  her  aunt  in  silence,  with  an  aching  heart.  She 
was  quite  conscious  that  the  other's  affection  for  her  had 
been  on  the  wane  for  some  time,  and  when  she  was  alone 
with  Ve"ronique  she  often  gave  way  to  tears.  At  those  times 
the  servant  would  rattle  the  saucepans  and  affect  to  be 
very  busy,  in  order  to  excuse  herself  from  taking  notice  or 
siding  with  one  party  or  the  other.  Although  she  was  con- 
tinually growling  at  Pauline,  she  was  now  beginning  to  feel 
some  qualms  of  conscience  and  to  doubt  whether  the  girl  was 
receiving  fair  treatment. 

When  the  winter  came  round  again,  Lazare  grew  quite 
despondent.  Once  again  his  whim  had  changed ;  he  began 
to  hate  the  works.  There  had  been  fresh  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ments in  November,  and  he  had  fallen  into  a  perfect  state  of 
panic.  He  had  got  over  previous  worries,  but  this  one  seemed 
to  reduce  him  to  despair,  to  render  him  hopeless  of  every- 
thing ;  and  he  began  to  revile  science.  The  idea  of  making 
anything  out  of  sea-weed  was  ridiculous  I  They  might 
improve  their  system  as  much  as  they  liked,  but  they  would 
never  be  able  to  drag  out  of  Nature  anything  that  Nature 
didn't  want  them  to  have.  He  even  fell  foul  of  his  master, 
the  great  Herbelin  himself,  who,  having  been  good  enough  to 
visit  the  works  at  Golden  Bay,  bad  seemed  quite  distressed  by 
all  the  elaborate  appliances,  which,  he  said,  were  perhaps  on  too 
large  a  scale  to  yield  the  results  which  had  been  obtained 
with  careful  small  experiments  in  his  own  laboratory.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  was,  that,  except  in  laboratory  experiments 
on  a  small  scale,  no  means  was  yet  known  of  maintaining 
the  low  temperature  which  was  necessary  for  the  crystallisa- 
tion of  the  various  substances.  Lazare  had,  indeed,  succeeded 
in  extracting  a  certain  quantity  of  bromide  of  potassium  from 
sea-weed,  but,  as  he  could  not  sufficiently  isolate  the  four  or 
five  other  bodies  mingled  with  it,  the  result  was  failure.  He 
felt  quite  sick  of  the  whole  business,  and  confessed  himself 


74  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

beaten.  One  evening,  when  Madame  Chanteau  and  Pauline 
besought  him  to  be  calm  and  to  make  one  last  effort,  there 
came  a  very  painful  scene,  when  unkind  recriminations  were 
indulged  in,  bitter  tears  shed,  and  doors  banged  with  such 
noisy  violence  that  poor  old  Chanteau  jumped  up  in  hia 
arm-chair  in  sheer  fright. 

'  You  will  end  by  killing  me !  '  the  young  man  screamed, 
as  he  rushed  away  and  locked  himself  up  in  his  room,  com- 
pletely overcome  by  childish  despair. 

At  breakfast-time  the  next  morning  he  brought  down  with 
him  a  paper  covered  over  with  figures.  Out  of  Pauline's 
hundred  and  eighty  thousand  francs,  nearly  a  hundred 
thousand  were  already  gone.  Was  there  any  sense  in  wasting 
more  money  ?  It  would  all  be  lost.  He  was  still  under  the 
influence  of  the  previous  evening's  alarm.  His  mother,  too, 
now  seemed  inclined  to  back  him  up.  She  had  never  been 
able  to  go  against  him  and  vex  him,  even  in  his  faults.  It 
was  only  Pauline  who  still  tried  to  discuss  the  matter.  The 
announcement  of  the  expenditure  of  those  hundred  thousand 
francs  quite  dazed  her.  What !  they  had  taken  more  than 
half  her  fortune,  and  those  hundred  thousand  francs  would 
be  utterly  lost  if  they  did  not  try  to  struggle  on  I  But  her 
arguments  and  persuasions  were  all  in  vain,  and  she  went  on 
talking  to  no  purpose  till  Veronique  had  cleared  the  table. 
Then,  to  avoid  breaking  out  into  reproaches  against  them, 
she  rushed  off  to  her  own  room,  quite  sick  at  heart. 

There  was  a  short  interval  of  silence  while  the  embar- 
rassed family  lingered  before  the  table. 

'  The  girl  is  evidently  avaricious,'  said  Madame  Chanteau 
at  last.  'It  is  a  pitiful  failing,  but  I  won't  have  Lazare 
worried  to  death  with  all  these  bothers  and  vexations.' 

Then  Chanteau  broke  in  timidly  : 

'  I  was  never  told  that  any  such  sum  had  been  spent.  It 
is  dreadful  to  think  of.  A  hundred  thousand  francs  1 ' 

1  Well,  what  of  it ! '  interrupted  his  wife  sharply.  '  It 
will  be  all  repaid  to  her.  If  our  son  marries  her,  he  is 
certainly  capable  of  making  a  hundred  thousand  francs.' 

Then  they  began  to  discuss  the  best  way  out  of  this 
difficulty.  What  had  alarmed  Lazare  more  than  anything 
else  was  a  statement  given  to  him  by  Boutigny,  which  showed 
a  most  desperate  condition  of  affairs.  The  debts  amounted 
to  about  twenty  thousand  francs ;  and,  when  Boutigny  saw 
that  his  partner  was  determined  to  retire,  he  expressed  his 


THE  JOY  OF  LIF£  75 

intention  of  going  to  Algeria,  where,  said  he,  there  was  a 
splendid  position  awaiting  him.  But,  afterwards,  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  best  course  would  be  to  get  the 
works  into  his  own  possession.  So  he  feigned  such  un- 
willingness, and  so  complicated  the  accounts,  that  in  the 
end  he  managed  to  secure  the  site  and  buildings  and  ap- 
paratus against  payment  of  the  twenty  thousand  francs  debts ; 
and  when,  ultimately,  Lazare  succeeded  in  wringing  out  of 
him  some  bills  for  five  thousand  francs,  to  be  paid  at  intervals 
of  three  months,  he  regarded  it  as  quite  a  wonderful  victory. 
On  the  very  next  day  Boutigny  sold  off  the  apparatus  and 
began  to  adapt  the  buildings  for  the  manufacture  of  common 
commercial  soda,  to  be  made  in  the  ordinary  routine  way, 
without  any  ultra -scientific  process. 

Pauline,  who  felt  a  little  ashamed  at  her  impulsive  move- 
ment in  favour  of  prudence  and  economy,  became  quite 
cheerful  again  and  submissive,  as  though  she  recognised  that 
she  had  done  something  for  which  she  ought  to  seek  pardon. 
When  Lazare  produced  the  bills  for  the  five  thousand  francs, 
Madame  Chanteau  was  quite  triumphant,  and  insisted  upon 
her  niece  going  upstairs  with  her  to  see  them  put  away  in  the 
drawer. 

'  There,  my  dear,  that's  five  thousand  francs  we've  got 
back.  There  they  are :  they  are  all  for  you.  My  son  has 
refused  to  keep  a  single  one  of  them  to  repay  him  for  all  the 
trouble  he  has  had.' 

Chanteau  had  been  worried  in  mind  for  some  time  now. 
Although  he  dared  not  refuse  his  signature  when  it  was 
asked  of  him,  the  way  in  which  his  wife  was  dealing  with 
their  ward's  fortune  filled  him  with  alarm.  That  total  of  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  was  for  ever  ringing  in  his  ears. 
How  could  they  possibly  make  up  such  a  deficiency  by  the 
time  when  the  accounts  would  have  to  be  examined  ?  And 
the  worst  of  it  all  was  that  Saccard,  the  surrogate-guardian, 
with  the  fame  of  whose  speculations  all  Paris  re-echoed,  had 
just  recalled  Pauline's  existence,  after  apparently  forgetting 
all  about  her  for  nearly  eight  years.  He  had  written  to  ask 
after  her,  and  had  even  spoken  of  calling  at  Bonneville  one 
day  on  his  way  to  transact  some  business  at  Cherbourg. 
What  explanation  could  they  possibly  give  him,  if  he  were  to 
ask  for  an  account  of  how  matters  stood,  as  he  undoubtedly 
had  the  right  to  do  ?  This  sudden  awaking  after  such  a  long 
period  of  utter  indifference  was  very  alarming. 


76  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

When  Chanteau  at  last  spoke  to  his  wife  on  the  matter, 
he  found  that  she  was  much  more  affected  by  curiosity  than 
by  alarm.  For  a  moment,  she  felt  sure  that  the  truth  of 
the  matter  was  that  Saccard,  with  his  gigantic  speculations, 
had  suddenly  found  himself  ruined,  and  had  bethought 
himself  of  getting  hold  of  Pauline's  money  to  try  and  regain 
what  he  had  lost.  Then,  directly  afterwards,  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  it  was  not  the  girl  herself  who  had  written 
to  her  surrogate-guardian  out  of  some  feeling  of  revenge. 
But,  when  she  found  that  her  husband  expressed  the  deepest 
disgust  at  any  such  hypothesis,  she  began  to  indulge  in  com- 
plicated suppositions  of  the  most  unlikely  kind.  Perhaps, 
said  she,  that  creature  of  Boutigny's,  the  husey  whom  they 
had  refused  to  receive  at  their  house,  and  who  was  running 
them  down  in  all  the  shops  of  Verchemont  and  Arromanches, 
had  written  anonymous  letters  to  Saccard. 

'  But  they  may  do  what  they  like,  for  all  that,1  she  said. 
'The  girl  is  not  eighteen  yet,  but  we  have  only  to  marry 
her  straight  off  to  Lazare,  and  the  marriage  will  at  once 
make  her  complete  mistress  of  her  fortune.' 

'  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ? '  asked  Chanteau. 

'  Of  course  I  am.  I  was  only  reading  it  in  the  Code  this 
morning.' 

Madame  Chanteau  had  taken  to  studying  the  Code  lately. 
Her  conscientious  scruples  were  not  quite  extinct,  and  she 
sought  about  her  for  reasons  to  allay  them.  Legal  subtleties 
had  a  special  interest  for  her  just  now  in  the  growing 
decline  of  her  honesty,  which  the  temptation  afforded  by  the 
large  sum  of  money  in  her  keeping  was  gradually  and  com- 
pletely destroying. 

However,  she  seemed  to  hesitate  about  actually  bringing 
the  marriage  scheme  to  an  immediate  issue.  After  the  finan- 
cial disaster  at  the  sea-weed  works,  Pauline  herself  had  wished 
to  hasten  affairs.  What  was  the  good  of  waiting  another  six 
months  till  she  should  be  eighteen  ?  They  had  better  get 
married  at  once,  without  waiting  for  Lazare  to  look  out  for 
other  employment.  She  ventured  to  say  as  much  to  her  aunt, 
who,  put  out  by  the  girl's  frankness,  had  recourse  to  a  lie.  She 
closed  the  door,  and  whispered  that  Lazare  was  really  rendered 
very  unhappy  by  secret  trouble.  He  was  extremely  sensitive, 
and  it  would  pain  him  very  much  to  marry  her  before  he  was 
able  to  bring  her  a  fortune,  now  that  he  had  compromised  her 
own.  The  girl  listened  to  all  this  with  great  astonishment, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  77 

quite  unable  to  understand  any  such  romantic  delicacy.  What 
did  it  matter  ?  Even  if  he  had  been  very  rich,  she  would 
have  married  him  all  the  same,  because  she  loved  him, 
Besides,  how  long  would  they  have  to  wait  ?  For  ever,  very 
likely.  Then  Madame  Chanteau  protested,  saying  she  would  do 
what  she  could  to  persuade  him  to  overcome  this  exaggerated 
sense  of  honour,  if  Pauline  would  only  keep  quiet  and  not  try 
to  hurry  matters ;  and,  in  conclusion,  she  made  her  niece  swear 
to  say  nothing  on  the  subject,  as  she  feared  that  the  young 
man  might  do  something  foolish,  perhaps  suddenly  leave 
home,  if  he  found  that  his  secret  had  been  discovered  and 
discussed.  Pauline,  whom  her  aunt's  remarks  filled  with  un- 
easiness, then  promised  to  remain  silent  and  patient.  Chanteau, 
however,  continued  to  grow  more  and  more  afraid  of  Saccard, 
and  one  day  he  said  to  his  wife :  '  If  it  can  be  managed, 
Pauline  and  Lazare  had  much  better  be  married  at  once.' 

'  There  is  no  hurry,'  she  said.  '  The  danger  is  not  at  the 
door  yet.' 

'  But  as  they  are  to  be  married  some  day You  haven't 

changed  your  mind  about  it,  eh  ?  It  will  kill  them  if  they 
are  separated.' 

1  Kill  them,  indeed  !  As  long  as  a  thing  is  not  done,  it 
need  not  be  done  at  all,  if  it  should  turn  out  inadvisable. 
But  they  are  quite  free  to  do  as  they  like,  and  we  shall  see  if 
they  continue  in  the  same  mind.' 

Pauline  and  Lazare  had  resumed  all  their  old  comrade- 
ship, while  the  terribly  severe  winter  kept  them  both  confined 
to  the  house.  During  the  first  week  Lazare  seemed  so  melan- 
choly, and  so  ashamed  of  himself  and  embittered  by  his  ill- 
fortune,  that  Pauline  lavished  all  her  tenderness  upon  him 
and  treated  him  as  gently  as  though  he  were  an  invalid.  She 
felt  great  pity  for  that  big  young  man,  whose  whimsical,  en- 
thusiastic temperament,  and  mere  nervous  courage  accounted 
for  all  his  failures,  and  she  gradually  began  to  assume  a 
sort  of  scolding  mother-like  authority  over  him.  At  first  he 
entirely  lost  his  head  and  vowed  that  he  would  go  and  work 
as  a  mere  peasant ;  then  he  gave  himself  up  to  all  kinds  of 
wild  projects  for  making  an  immediate  fortune,  and  declared 
that  he  would  not  remain  a  burden  on  his  family  for  another 
day.  But  time  slipped  on,  and  he  continually  deferred 
putting  his  plans  into  execution.  Every  morning  he  came 
down  with  some  new  scheme  which  would  at  once  lead  to  the 
greatest  wealth  and  honour.  Pauline,  frightened  by  her  aunt's 


78  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

lying  confidences,  scolded  him  and  asked  him  if  he  supposed 
that  anyone  wanted  him  to  go  bothering  himself  in  that  way. 
It  would  be  soon  enough  for  him  to  look  out  for  something  to 
do  when  the  spring  came,  and,  no  doubt,  he  would  speedily  be 
successful ;  but,  till  then,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  rest. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  she  seemed  to  have  gained  the  better 
of  him,  and  he  fell  into  a  state  of  dreamy  idleness  and  cynical 
resignation  beneath  what  he  called  the  burdens  of  life. 

Every  day  now  Pauline  found  some  new  trouble  in  Lazare 
which  upset  her.  His  previous  outbursts  of  temper  and  his 
will-o'-the-wisp  enthusiasm  were  preferable  to  this  moody 
cynicism  and  bitter  profession  of  scepticism.  Pessimism 
acquired  in  Paris  among  fellow-students  was  reviving  in  him. 
The  girl  could  understand  that  angry  disgust  at  his  failure — 
the  catastrophe  of  the  sea-weed  scheme — lay  at  the  bottom  of 
his  railings  against  life.  But  she  was  not  able  to  divine  the 
other  influences  at  work  in  him,  and  had  to  confine  herself  to 
indignant  protests  when  he  reverted  to  his  old  philosophy — 
the  denial  of  all  progress  and  the  futility  of  science.  "Wasn't 
that  beast  of  a  Boutigny  on  the  high  road  to  fortune  with  his 
wretched  commercial  soda  ?  said  Lazare.  What  was  the  good, 
then,  of  ruining  one's  self  to  make  something  better,  to  dis- 
cover new  laws  and  systems,  when  empiricism  won  the  day  ? 
This  was  his  constant  strain,  and  he  would  finish  by  saying, 
with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips,  that  the  only  good  thing  science 
could  do  would  be  to  discover  a  way  to  blow  the  whole  universe 
into  atoms  by  means  of  some  colossal  cartridge.  Then  he 
frigidly  jested  on  the  will-power  that  directs  the  world  and  the 
blind  folly  of  wishing  to  live.  All  life,  he  said,  was  pain  and 
trouble,  and  he  adopted  the  doctrine  of  the  Hindoo  fakirs,  that 
annihilation  was  the  supreme  blessing.  When  Pauline  heard 
him  affecting  a  horror  and  disgust  of  all  active  motion,  and 
predicting  the  ultimate  self -extinction  of  the  nations,  who  one 
day — when  their  intelligence  was  highly  enough  developed  to 
enable  them  to  realise  the  imbecile,  miserable  part  which  an 
unknown  power  made  them  play — would  refuse  to  beget  fresh 
generations,  she  became  indignant  and  tried  to  find  arguments 
to  confute  him ;  but  all  to  no  avail,  for  she  was  quite  ignorant 
of  these  matters,  and,  as  her  cousin  told  her,  did  not  possess 
a  metaphysical  head.  Still,  she  would  not  allow  she  was 
beaten,  and  roundly  sent  Schopenhauer  to  the  devil  when 
Lazare  wanted  to  read  some  extracts  from  his  works  to  her. 
Schopenhauer,  indeed !  A  man  who  had  written  such  horrid 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  79 

lies  about  women  !  If  he  had  not  shown  a  little  affection  for 
animals  she  would  have  strangled  him  t  Vigorous  with  robust 
health  herself,  and  full  of  cheerfulness  and  hope  for  the 
morrow,  she  at  last  reduced  her  cousin  to  silence  by  her 
merry  laughter  and  youthful  freshness. 

'  Stop  !  stop!'  she  would  cry.  'You  are  talking  nonsense. 
We  will  think  about  dying  when  we  have  grown  old.' 

The  idea  of  death,  which  she  spoke  of  so  lightly,  always 
affected  him  very  painfully,  and  he  quickly  turned  the  con- 
versation, after  murmuring : 

'  People  die  at  all  ages.' 

Pauline  at  last  understood  that  the  thought  of  death  was 
terrible  to  Lazare.  She  called  to  mind  his  fear-stricken  cry 
that  night  as  they  lay  on  the  beach  gazing  at  the  stars.  At 
the  mention  of  certain  things  she  saw  him  turn  sickly  pale, 
shut  himself  up  in  moody  silence,  as  though  he  were  conceal- 
ing some  disease  whose  existence  he  dared  not  confess.  She 
was  greatly  surprised  at  the  fear  of  personal  extinction  felt 
by  this  pessimist,  who  talked  about  snuffing  out  the  stars 
like  so  many  candles  amid  the  wreck  of  the  whole  universe. 
This  mental  disease  of  Lazare's  was  of  old  standing,  and  the 
girl  did  not  guess  the  dangerous  hold  that  it  had  obtained 
upon  her  cousin.  As  he  grew  older,  Lazare  had  seen  death 
rise  before  him.  Till  he  was  twenty  years  of  age  but  a  faint 
ghill  had  touched  him  when  he  went  to  bed.  But  now  he 
could  not  lay  his  head  on  his  pillow  without  the  thought  of 
Nevermore  freezing  his  very  blood.  He  tossed  about,  a  prey 
to  sleeplessness,  and  could  not  resign  himself  to  the  fatal 
necessity  which  presented  itself  so  lugubriously  to  his 
imagination. 

And  when,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  he  had  at  last  fallen 
asleep,  he  would  awake  with  a  start,  and  spring  up  in  bed, 
his  eyes  staring  wildly  with  terror  and  his  hands  clutching 
one  another,  as  he  gasped  in  the  darkness :  '  0  my  God ! 
my  God ! '  He  would  pant  for  breath  and  believe  that  he  was 
dying;  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  struck  a  light  and 
thoroughly  awakened  himself  that  he  regained  anything  like 
calmness.  After  these  outbreaks  of  panic  he  always  retained 
a  feeling  of  shame  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  cry  out  to  a 
God  whose  existence  he  denied,  that  he  had  yielded  to  the 
hereditary  weakness  of  the  human  race  in  calling  amidst 
its  powerlessness  for  help.  But  every  night  he  suffered  in 
this  way,  and  even  during  the  daytime  a  chance  word  or  a 


8o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

momentary  thought,  arising  from  something  he  saw  or  read, 
sufficed  to  throw  him  into  a  state  of  terror.  One  evening,  as 
Pauline  was  reading  a  newspaper  to  her  uncle,  Lazare  hastily 
rushed  from  the  room,  completely  upset  by  the  fancies  of 
some  story-teller  who  pictured  the  skies  of  the  twentieth 
century  filled  with  troops  of  balloons  conveying  travellers  from 
continent  to  continent.  He  had  thought  that  he  would  no 
longer  be  living  then,  that  his  eyes  would  never  gaze  upon 
those  balloons,  which  vanished  into  far-away  centuries,  the 
idea  of  whose  revolution,  after  his  own  complete  extinction, 
filled  him  with  anguish.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  philo- 
sophers reminded  him  that  not  a  spark  of  life  is  ever  utterly 
lost ;  the  Ego  within  him  ragefully  refused  to  accept  its  fate. 
These  inward  struggles  had  already  deprived  him  of  his  former 
cheerfulness ;  and  when  Pauline,  who  could  not  always  follow 
the  twists  and  turns  of  his  morbid  mind,  looked  at  him  at 
those  times  when  tormenting  shame  prompted  him  to  conceal 
his  anguish,  her  heart  melted  with  compassion ;  she  burned 
to  show  her  love  and  do  all  she  could  to  make  him  happier. 

Their  days  were  spent  in  the  big  room  on  the  second  floor, 
amidst  a  litter  of  sea-weed,  bottles,  jars,  and  instruments, 
which  Lazare  had  never  had  the  energy  to  clear  away.  The 
sea-weed  was  falling  to  pieces  and  the  bottles  were  growing 
discoloured,  while  the  instruments  were  getting  damaged  by 
neglect.  But  in  all  this  disorder  Pauline  and  Lazare  were 
alone  and  warm.  Frequently  did  the  December  rains  beat 
upon  the  slates  of  the  roof  from  morning  till  night,  while  the 
west  wind  roared  organ-like  through  the  crevices  of  the 
woodwork.  Whole  weeks  passed  without  sight  of  the  sun, 
and  there  was  nothing  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon  save  the  grey 
sea — a  grey  immensity,  in  which  the  earth  seemed  to  be 
melting  away.  Pauline  found  amusement  for  her  unoccupied 
hours  in  classifying  a  collection  of  florida  which  she  had 
gathered  during  the  previous  spring.  At  first  Lazare,  with 
his  utter  ennui,  had  just  watched  her  as  she  mounted  the 
delicate  forms,  whose  soft  blues  and  reds  showed  like  water- 
colours;  but  afterwards,  growing  weary  of  his  idleness,  and 
forgetting  his  theory  of  inaction,  he  unearthed  the  piano  from 
the  litter  of  damaged  appliances  and  dirty  bottles  beneath 
which  it  was  buried.  A  week  later  his  passion  for  music  had 
resumed  all  its  old  sway  over  him.  It  was  a  revival  of  the 
artistic  sense  which  lay  beneath  his  failure  as  a  scientist  and 
a  manufacturer.  One  morning,  as  he  was  playing  his  March 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  81 

of  Death,  the  idea  of  the  great  symphony  on  Grief,  winch  he 
had  once  thought  of  composing,  excited  him  again.  All  that 
had  been  already  written,  except  the  March,  was  worthless,  he 
thought ;  and  the  March  was  the  only  portion  he  would 
retain.  But  what  a  magnificent  subject  it  was — what  a 
task  to  perform  !  And  how  he  might  embody  all  his  philo- 
sophy in  it !  He  would  commence  with  the  creation  of  life 
by  the  selfish  caprice  of  some  superior  power.  Then  would 
come  the  delusiveness  of  happiness  and  the  mockery  of  lif  e  in 
striking  passages,  an  embrace  of  lovers,  a  massacre  of  soldiers, 
and  the  death  of  a  God  upon  the  cross.  Throughout  every- 
thing a  cry  of  woe  should  ascend;  the  groans  of  human- 
kind should  mount  upwards  to  the  skies,  until  came  the 
final  hymn  of  deliverance,  a  hymn  whose  melting  sweet- 
ness should  express  all  the  happiness  that  came  of  universal 
annihilation. 

The  next  morning  he  set  enthusiastically  to  work,  jingling, 
strumming  on  the  piano,  and  covering  sheets  of  paper  with 
black  bars.  As  the  instrument  was  in  a  more  feeble  condi- 
tion than  ever,  he  sang  the  notes  himself  in  a  droning  manner. 
Never  had  any  of  his  previous  fads  taken  such  strong  hold 
of  him.  He  was  so  completely  absorbed  that  he  forgot 
his  meals,  and  all  but  deafened  poor  Pauline,  who,  in  her 
desire  to  please  him,  pretended  that  she  liked  it  all  very 
much,  and  neatly  recopied  portions  of  the  score.  This  time 
he  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  a  masterpiece  in  hand. 

But  by-and-by  his  enthusiasm  flagged.  He  had  the  whole 
score  written  except  the  introduction,  and  inspiration  for  that 
failed  him.  He  would  have  to  let  it  wait  for  a  time,  he  said, 
and  he  smoked  cigarettes,  while  his  manuscript  lay  upon  the 
table  in  front  of  him.  Pauline  played  little  bits  from  it  on 
the  piano,  with  all  a  beginner's  clumsiness.  It  was  now  that 
the  intimacy  between  the  two  young  people  began  to  assume 
a  dangerous  character.  Lazare's  brain  was  no  longer  oc- 
cupied ;  and,  shut  up  with  Pauline  in  a  state  of  idleness,  he 
began  to  feel  for  her  a  warmer  passion  than  before.  She  was 
so  light-hearted  and  merry ;  so  affectionate  and  devoted.  At 
first  he  thought  that  all  he  felt  was  a  mere  impulse  of 
gratitude,  an  amplification  of  that  fraternal  affection  with  which 
she  had  inspired  him  ever  since  childhood.  But  by  degrees 
passion,  hitherto  dormant,  awoke  into  life.  In  that  younger 
brother  he  was  at  last  beginning  to  recognise  a  woman ;  and 
he  flushed  as  she  did  when  he  brushed  against  her.  If  their 

a 


82  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

bands  happened  to  meet,  they  both  looked  confused  and  their 
breath  came  quickly,  while  their  cheeks  crimsoned.  And  thus 
all  the  time  they  now  spent  alone  together  they  felt  troubled 
and  ill  at  ease. 

Sometimes,  to  relieve  them  from  embarrassment,  Pauline 
would  begin  to  joke  with  all  the  frank  boldness  of  her 
innocent,  though  well-read  mind. 

'  By  the  way,'  said  she,  one  day,  '  did  I  tell  you  that  I 
dreamed  that  your  favourite  Schopenhauer  had  received 
tidings  in  the  other  world  of  our  marriage,  and  that  his  ghost 
came  to  pay  us  a  visit  ?  ' 

Lazare  laughed  uneasily.  He  understood  very  well  that 
she  was  poking  fun  at  his  inconsistencies,  but  his  whole 
being  was  now  thrilled  with  tenderness,  which  carried  all  his 
distaste  for  existence  away. 

'  Don't  be  naughty,  dear,'  he  said.  '  You  know  that  1 
love  you.' 

She  assumed  a  chiding  look. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  are  inclined  to  put  off  the  universal 
deliverance.  You  are  grovelling  in  egotism  and  delusions 
again.' 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  you  wicked  tease  ! ' 

He  sprang  up  and  chased  her  round  the  room,  as  she 
continued  to  hurl  at  him  fragments  of  pessimistic  philosophy 
with  all  the  solemnity  of  a  doctor  of  the  Sorbonne.  But 
when  he  caught  hold  of  her,  he  no  longer  dared  to  keep  her 
within  his  grasp,  and  pinch  her  for  punishment  as  in  olden 
time. 

One  day  when  he  was  chasing  her  round  the  room,  and 
had  succeeded  in  getting  close,  he  clutched  her  by  the  waist. 
She  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh,  while  he,  holding  her  against 
the  wardrobe,  quivered  with  excitement  as  he  felt  her 
struggling. 

'  Ah  !  I  have  got  you  this  time ! '  he  cried. 

Their  faces  were  touching,  and  she  still  laughed,  though 
in  an  uneasy  manner. 

'  Please  let  me  go,'  she  entreated.  '  I  won't  be  naughty 
any  more.' 

He  roughly  planted  a  kiss  on  her  lips.  Then  the  whole 
room  appeared  to  swim  round  them  and  a  hot  feverish  gust 
seemed  to  sweep  them  into  space.  She  staggered,  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  effort,  released  herself  from  her  cousin's 
grasp.  For  a  moment  they  both  stood  silent  and  confused, 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  83 

their  cheeks  crimson  as  they  avoided  each  other's  glance. 
At  last  Pauline  dropped  upon  a  chair  to  get  her  breath. 

'  You  have  hurt  me,  Lazare,'  she  said,  speaking  as  though 
she  were  seriously  displeased  with  him. 

From  that  day  he  guarded  himself  from  contact  with 
her.  His  sense  of  honour  rebelled  against  the  thought  of 
any  disgraceful  lapse ;  he  was  quite  conscious  that  in  heart 
and  soul  she  was  entirely  his  own ;  but  he  felt  that  respect 
and  protection  were  her  due,  and  that  in  dangerous  dallying 
his  would  be  the  guilt  alone.  However,  this  very  struggle 
on  his  part  only  served  to  increase  his  love.  Everything 
lately  had  tended  to  fan  its  flame :  the  idleness  of  the 
first  few  weeks,  his  assumed  indifference  as  to  what  became 
of  him,  his  disgust  with  life,  through  which  sprang  a  fresh 
passionate  desire  of  life  and  love  and  even  suffering,  as  occu- 
pation for  his  empty  hours.  And  then  music  finally  trans- 
ported his  mind,  carrying  him  away  to  a  land  of  dreams 
on  spreading  wings  of  melody.  He  began  to  believe  that  a 
mighty  passion  possessed  him,  and  vowed  to  cultivate  it 
for  his  genius'  sake.  He  could  no  longer  doubt  it.  He  would 
be  a  great  musician,  for  he  need  only  hearken  to  the 
promptings  of  his  heart.  Everything  then  appeared  to  him 
purified ;  he  felt  content  to  worship  Pauline  on  his  knees, 
and  did  not  even  think  of  hurrying  on  their  marriage. 

'Come  and  read  this  letter  I  have  just  received,'  said 
Chanteau  in  alarm  one. day  to  his  wife,  who  had  just  come  up 
from  the  village. 

It  was  another  letter  from  Saccard,  and  quite  a  threat- 
ening one.  Ever  since  November  he  had  been  asking  for  a 
statement  of  the  accounts  of  Pauline's  fortune,  and,  as  the 
Chanteaus  had  only  replied  by  evasions  and  subterfuges,  he 
now  announced  that  he  meant  to  lay  the  matter  before  the 
family  council.  Madame  Chanteau,  though  she  would  not 
confess  it,  was  quite  as  alarmed  as  her  husband. 

'  The  wretch  ! '  she  growled,  when  she  had  read  the  letter. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  quite  pale  and  without  finding 
a  word  to  say.  They  already  seemed  to  hear  in  that  lifeless 
little  dining-room  the  echoes  of  a  disgraceful  lawsuit. 

'  There  must  be  no  more  dilly-dallying,'  resumed  Chanteau. 
'  We  must  marry  the  girl  at  once,  since  marriage  releases  her 
from  all  control.' 

But  to  his  wife  this  expedient  seemed  to  grow  more  dis- 
tasteful every  day.  She  expressed  various  fears.  Who  could 

G2 


84  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

tell  if  the  two  young  folks  would  get  on  well  together  ?  It  ia 
quite  possible  for  people  to  agree  as  friends,  and  yet  to  make 
each  other  perfectly  miserable  as  man  and  wife.  Lately,  she 
said,  various  unpleasant  things  had  struck  her. 

'  No,'  she  added ;  '  it  would  be  wrong  to  sacrifice  them 
for  the  sake  of  our  own  peace.  Let  us  wait  a  little  longer. 
And,  besides,  should  we  gain  any  advantage  by  marrying  her 
now  ?  She  was  eighteen  last  month,  and  we  can  apply  for 
legal  emancipation.' 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  confident  again.  She 
went  upstairs  to  get  the  Code,  and  they  both  pored  over  it 
together.  Article  478  tranquillised  them,  but  they  felt  uneasy 
again  as  they  read  Article  480,  for  there  it  was  enacted  that 
the  accounts  of  a  ward's  estate  must  be  submitted  to  a  curator 
appointed  by  the  family  council.  It  was  true  that  she  could 
easily  manage  all  the  members  of  the  council,  and  make  them 
do  what  she  wanted,  but  whom  could  she  choose  as  curator  ? 
The  difficulty  was  to  find  some  easy-going  man,  instead  of 
Saccard,  the  surrogate-guardian. 

Suddenly  she  had  an  inspiration. 

'  I've  got  it,'  she  cried,  '  Doctor  Cazenove  I  He  is  some- 
what in  our  confidence,  and  he  won't  refuse.1 

Chanteau  nodded  approval.  He  continued,  however,  to 
look  at  his  wife,  as  though  revolving  some  thought  in  his 
mind. 

'  And  so,'  he  said  at  last,  '  you  will  hand  over  the  money  ? 
What  is  left  of  it,  I  mean  ?' 

Madame  Chanteau  remained  silent  for  a  moment.  Her 
eyes  sought  the  Code,  whose  pages  she  turned  with  nervous 
excitement.  Then  with  an  effort  she  replied : 

'  Of  course ;  and  it  will  be  a  great  relief  to  me  to  do  so, 
after  the  accusations  that  have  already  been  made  against  us. 
Upon  my  word,  it  is  enough  to  make  one  suspect  oneself  !  I 
would  give  something  to  see  the  tiresome  papers  removed 
from  my  secretaire  to-night.  And,  anyway,  we  should  always 
have  to  give  them  up  to  her.' 

The  next  day,  when  Doctor  Cazenove  made  his  usual 
Saturday  round  in  Bonneville,  she  mentioned  the  great 
service  they  awaited  from  his  friendship.  She  made  an 
open  breast  of  the  situation,  and  told  him  how  the  money  had 
been  swallowed  up  in  the  sea-weed  works,  without  the  family 
council  having  been  consulted  in  the  matter,  Then  she 
dwelt  upon  the  intended  marriage  and  the  sad  possibility  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  85 

the  bonds  of  affection  which  united  them  all  together  being 
torn  asunder  by  the  scandal  of  a  law-suit. 

Before  promising  his  assistance  the  doctor  desired  to  have 
an  interview  with  Pauline.  He  had  long  suspected  that  she 
was  being  taken  advantage  of,  and  that  her  fortune  was 
being  gradually  frittered  away ;  and,  though  he  had  hitherto 
said  nothing  for  fear  of  causing  her  pain,  he  felt  that  now,  as 
he  was  being  invited  to  become  an  accomplice,  it  was  his  duty 
to  warn  her.  The  interview  took  place  in  the  girl's  own 
room.  At  the  commencement  of  the  conversation  her  aunt 
was  present.  She  had  accompanied  the  Doctor  to  declare 
that  the  marriage  now  depended  entirely  on  Pauline's  eman- 
cipation from  the  family  council's  control,  as  Lazare  would 
never  consent  to  marry  as  long  as  it  was  possible  for  others 
to  accuse  him  of  doing  so  for  the  mere  purpose  of  avoiding 
an  examination  of  the  accounts.  Then  she  left  the  room, 
saying  that  she  did  not  wish  to  do  anything  to  affect  the 
decision  of  the  dear  girl  whom  she  already  regarded  as  her 
darling  daughter.  Pauline,  quite  overcome  with  emotion, 
immediately  begged  the  Doctor  to  render  them  the  delicate 
service  the  necessity  of  which  had  just  been  made  clear  to 
him.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Cazenove  tried  to  explain 
the  exact  position  of  affairs  to  her,  to  show  her  that  she  was 
despoiling  herself,  reducing  herself  to  a  condition  of  absolute 
dependence,  or  that  he  revealed  his  own  fears  for  the  future — 
perfect  ruin,  possible  ingratitude  and  suffering.  At  every 
gloomy  suggestion  she  uttered  indignant  protests,  refused  to 
listen  further,  and  showed  a  feverish  haste  to  complete  the 
sacrifice. 

'  No  I  no !  don't  try  to  make  me  regret  things.  I  am 
really  very  avaricious  at  heart,  though  I  don't  let  it  appear. 
It  has  given  me  a  world  of  trouble  to  conquer  myself.  Let 
them  have  everything.  If  they  will  only  give  me  their  love, 
they  may  have  all  that  belongs  to  me  ! ' 

'  And  so,'  asked  the  Doctor,  'it  is  affection  for  your  cousin 
that  leads  you  to  strip  yourself  of  your  fortune  ? ' 

She  blushed  and  did  not  reply. 

'  But  suppose  that  after  a  time  your  cousin  should  cease 
to  love  you  ?' 

She  stared  at  him  with  a  frightened  look.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  big  tears,  and  a  cry  of  protesting  love  burst  from  her 
heart.  '  No  1  no  1  Why  do  you  torture  me  like  this  ? ' 

Then  Doctor  Cazenove  consented  to  do  as  she  wished. 


86  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

He  could  not  summon  up  the  courage  to  amputate  that 
generous  heart  of  the  illusions  of  love.  Trouble  would  come 
to  her  soon  enough. 

Madame  Chanteau  conducted  the  campaign  with  astonish- 
ing brilliancy  of  intrigue.  That  struggle  made  her  feel  quite 
young  again.  She  set  off  to  Paris  once  more,  taking  along 
with  her  all  the  necessary  powers  and  authorisations.  She 
quickly  won  the  members  of  the  family  council  over  to  her 
own  way  of  thinking.  Those  good  people,  indeed,  had  never 
troubled  about  their  duties;  they  showed  the  indifference 
usual  in  such  matters.  The  members  of  the  council  who 
came  from  Quenu's  side  of  the  family,  cousins  Naudet, 
Liardin,  and  Delorme,  agreed  with  her  at  once ;  and  as  for 
the  three  on  Lisa's  side,  it  was  only  upon  Octave  Mouret 
that  she  had  to  expend  any  argument ;  the  others,  Claude 
Lantier  and  Bambaud,  who  were  both  then  living  at 
Marseilles,  contented  themselves  with  forwarding  her  their 
written  consent.  To  all  of  them  she  poured  out  a  moving,  if 
somewhat  confused,  story,  and  spoke  of  the  old  Arromanches 
surgeon's  affection  for  Pauline,  and  his  manifest  intention  to 
leave  her  all  his  money  should  he  be  permitted  to  take  her 
under  his  care.  As  for  Saccard,  he,  too,  acquiesced,  as  the 
others  had  done,  after  Madame  Chanteau  had  paid  him  three 
visits  and  suggested  a  brilliant  new  idea  to  him,  the  forma- 
tion of  a  ring  in  Normandy  butter.  Pauline's  emancipation 
was  formally  pronounced  by  the  family  council,  and  the 
ex-naval  surgeon  Cazenove,  of  whom  the  Justice  of  the  Peace 
had  received  the  most  satisfactory  account,  was  nominated 
trustee. 

A  fortnight  after  Madame  Chanteau's  return  to  Bonne 
ville  the  auditing  of  the  guardianship  accounts  took  place 
in  the  simplest  manner.  The  Doctor  had  lunched  with  them, 
and  they  sat  lingering  round  the  table,  discussing  the  latest 
news  from  Caen,  whence  Lazare  had  just  returned  after  a  two 
days'  visit,  taken  thither  by  the  threat  of  an  action  on  the 
part  of  '  that  scamp  Boutigny.' 

'  By  the  way,'  added  the  young  man,  '  Louise  will  give 
you  all  a  surprise  when  you  see  her  next  week.  When  I 
saw  her,  I  positively  didn't  recognise  her.  She  is  living  with 
her  father  now,  and  has  grown  into  quite  a  fashionable  young 
lady.  We  had  a  very  merry  laugh  over  it.' 

Pauline  looked  at  him,  feeling  some  surprise  at  the 
warmth  of  his  tone. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  87 

1  Talking  of  Louise,'  interrupted  Madame  Chanteau, 're- 
minds me  that  I  travelled  with  a  lady  from  Caen  who  knew 
the  Thibaudiers.  I  was  quite  thunderstruck  when  she  told 
me  that  Thibaudier  would  give  his  daughter  a  dowry  of  a 
hundred  thousand  francs.  With  the  other  hundred  thousand 
which  she  had  from  her  mother  the  girl  will  have  two 
hundred  thousand.  Two  hundred  thousand  francs  1  She  will 
be  quite  wealthy  ! ' 

'  She  could  do  very  well  without  all  that,'  said  Lazare, 
4  for  she's  quite  charming.  And  so  kittenish  in  her  ways ! ' 

A  gloomy  expression  thereupon  came  into  Pauline's  eyes, 
and  her  lips  twitched  nervously.  However,  the  Doctor,  who 
had  never  ceased  watching  her,  lifted  up  his  little  glass  of 
rum,  saying: 

'  Ah,  we  haven't  clinked  glasses  yet !  Here's  to  your  health, 
my  young  friends  !  Get  married  quickly  and  have  plenty  of 
children.' 

Without  a  smile  Madame  Chanteau  slowly  raised  her 
glass ;  while  her  husband,  to  whom  liqueurs  were  forbidden, 
contented  himself  with  nodding  his  head  approvingly. 
Lazare,  however,  had  just  caught  hold  of  Pauline's  hand 
with  such  an  expression  of  affection  that  all  the  blood  in 
her  heart  had  come  pulsing  to  her  cheeks.  Was  she  not, 
indeed,  his  good  angel,  whose  love  for  him  he  would  adorn 
with  the  brilliance  of  genius  ?  She  returned  the  pressure  of 
his  grasp.  Then  they  all  clinked  glasses. 

'  To  your  hundredth  birthday ! '  continued  the  Doctor,  who 
considered  that  a  hundred  years  was  a  good  and  proper  age 
for  a  man  to  reach. 

Lazare  turned  pale.  The  mention  of  those  hundred 
years  sent  a  painful  thrill  through  him,  reminding  him  of  the 
time  when  he  would  have  ceased  to  exist,  the  dread  of  which 
everlastingly  lurked  within  his  mind.  In  a  hundred  years 
where  would  he  be,  indeed  ?  And  what  would  he  be  ?  What 
stranger  would  be  seated  drinking  wine  at  that  table  where 
he  now  sat?  He  raised  his  little  glass  with  a  trembling 
hand ;  while  Pauline,  who  had  grasped  hold  of  the  other, 
pressed  it  with  a  kind  of  maternal  encouragement,  as  though 
she  had  seen  the  icy  quiver  of  '  Nevermore  1 '  passing  over  his 
pallid  face.  After  a  short  interval  of  silence  Madame 
Chanteau  said  very  seriously,  '  And  now  suppose  we  get  our 
business  over  ?  ' 

She  had  settled  that  the  formalities  should    be    gone 


88  THE  JO}    OF  LIFE 

through  in  her  own  room.  It  would  lend  additional  solemnity 
to  them,  she  thought.  Chanteau  had  been  able  to  walk 
better  since  he  had  begun  to  take  salicylic  acid.  With 
the  help  of  the  banisters  he  climbed  the  stairs  behind  his 
wife.  Lazare  talked  about  going  on  to  the  terrace  to  smoke 
a  cigar  there ;  but  his  mother  called  him  back,  and  insisted 
upon  his  presence,  which  would  only  be  seemly  and  proper, 
she  said. 

The  Doctor  and  Pauline  had  already  gone  on  before. 
Matthew,  who  looked  at  the  procession  with  wondering 
eyes,  followed  in  the  rear. 

'  That  dog  is  quite  a  nuisance ! '  cried  Madame  Chanteau, 
as  she  tried  to  shut  the  door.  'One  can't  go  anywhere 
without  being  followed  by  him.  Well!  well!  come  in, 
then ;  I  can't  have  you  scratching  outside.  There  !  no  one 
will  come  and  disturb  us  now.  Everything,  you  see,  is  quite 
ready.' 

Some  pens  and  an  inkstand  were  all  ready  laid  upon  the 
table.  In  the  room  one  found  all  the  closeness  and  mournful 
silence  that  clings  to  places  that  are  rarely  occupied.  Only 
Minouche  spent  her  idle  hours  there,  when  she  could 
manage  to  glide  inside  of  a  morning ;  and  just  now  she 
happened  to  be  lying  asleep  on  the  middle  of  the  eider-down 
quilt.  She  raised  her  head  in  surprise  at  the  invasion,  and 
stared  at  the  new-comers  with  her  green  eyes. 

'  Sit  down  !     Sit  down  ! '  said  Chanteau. 

Then  things  were  quickly  settled.  Madame  Chanteau 
refrained  from  all  share  in  the  proceedings,  leaving  her 
husband  to  play  the  part  in  which  she  had  been  carefully 
coaching  him  since  the  day  before.  In  conformity  with  the 
requirements  of  the  law,  the  latter,  ten  days  previously,  had 
delivered  to  Pauline  and  the  Doctor  the  accounts  of  his 
guardianship  in  a  bulky  volume,  where  the  expenses  were 
noted  on  one  page  and  the  receipts  on  the  other.  Every- 
thing was  charged  for,  not  only  Pauline's  board  and  lodging, 
but  also  the  cost  of  the  journeys  to  Paris  and  Caen.  All 
that  had  to  be  done  was  to  accept  the  accounts  by  a  private 
deed.  But  Cazenove,  taking  his  office  of  curator  somewhat 
seriously,  wanted  an  explanation  about  some  of  the  expenses 
that  had  been  incurred  in  connection  with  the  sea-weed 
works,  and  compelled  Chanteau  to  enter  into  details.  Pauline 
cast  a  supplicating  glance  at  the  Doctor.  What  was  the  use 
of  all  this  ?  She  herself  had  assisted  in  the  preparation  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  89 

the  accounts,  which  her  aunt  had  copied  out  in  her  most 
elegant  English — that  is,  angular— handwriting. 

Meantime  Minouche  had  sat  up  on  the  eider-down  quilt, 
the  better  to  view  these  strange  proceedings.  Matthew,  after 
lying  with  his  huge  head  stretched  out  on  the  carpet  with  an 
air  of  great  wisdom,  had  just  thrown  himself  on  his  back  and 
was  rolling  and  twisting  about  with  noisy  manifestations  of 

joy- 

'  Oh,  do  make  him  be  still,  Lazare ! '  cried  Madame 
Chanteau,  quite  impatient  of  the  disturbance.  'One  can't 
hear  one's  self  speak  ! ' 

The  young  man  was  looking  out  of  the  window,  following 
a  far-off  white  sail  with  his  eyes  in  order  to  conceal  his 
embarrassment.  He  experienced  a  feeling  of  deep  shame  as 
he  listened  to  his  father,  who  was  giving  a  detailed  account  of 
the  money  lost  in  the  works. 

'  Make  a  little  less  noise,  Matthew  1 '  he  cried,  reaching 
out  his  foot. 

The  dog  thought  he  was  going  to  have  his  belly  rubbed, 
a  proceeding  which  he  dearly  loved,  and  he  grew  more 
demonstrative  than  ever.  Happily,  there  was  now  nothing 
more  to  be  done  than  to  affix  the  signatures.  Pauline,  with 
a  stroke  of  her  pen,  hastened  to  signify  her  approval  of  every- 
thing. Then  the  Doctor,  as  if  regretfully,  scrawled  a  huge 
flourish  over  the  stamped  paper.  Painful  silence  fell. 

'  The  assets,'  said  Madame  Chanteau,  breaking  the  silence, 
'  amount,  then,  to  seventy-five  thousand  two  hundred  and  ten 
francs  thirty  centimes.  I  will  now  hand  that  sum  to  Pauline.' 

She  stepped  towards  the  secretaire  and  lowered  the  lid, 
which  gave  out  the  creak  that  had  so  often  distressed  her. 
But  just  now  she  was  very  grave,  and,  when  she  opened  the 
drawer,  they  saw  the  old  ledger-binding  inside.  It  was  the 
same  as  before,  with  its  green-marble  pattern  stained  with 
grease  spots,  but  it  was  not  nearly  so  bulky ;  as  the  scrip  was 
removed  it  had  grown  thinner  and  thinner. 

'  No  !  no  !  aunt,'  exclaimed  Pauline,  '  keep  it  1 ' 

Madame  Chanteau  protested : 

'  We  are  giving  in  our  accounts,'  she  said,  '  and  we  must 
give  up  the  money  as  well.  It  is  your  property.  You 
remember  what  I  said  to  you  when  I  put  it  there  eight  years 
ago  ?  We  don't  want  to  take  a  copper  of  it  for  ourselves.' 

She  drew  out  the  papers  and  insisted  on  her  niece  counting 
them.  There  was  scrip  for  seventy-five  thousand  francs,  and 


9o 

a  small  packet  of  gold,  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper, 
completed  the  balance. 

'  But  where  am  I  to  put  it  all  ? '  asked  Pauline,  whose 
cheeks  flushed  at  the  handling  of  so  much  money. 

'Lock  it  up  in  one  of  your  drawers,'  her  aunt  replied. 
1  You  are  now  big  enough  to  take  care  of  your  own  money. 
I  don't  want  to  see  it  again  myself.  Stay !  if  you  really  find 
it  so  troublesome,  give  it  to  Minouche,  who  is  looking  very 
attentively  at  you.1 

Now  that  the  Chanteaus  had  settled  their  accounts,  their 
cheerfulness  returned.  Lazare,  quite  at  his  ease,  began  play- 
ing with  the  dog,  making  him  try  to  catch  hold  of  his  tail, 
in  such  wise  that  he  bent  and  twisted  his  spine  and  spun 
round  and  round  like  a  top.  Doctor  Cazenove,  for  his  part,  had 
already  entered  upon  his  duties  as  trustee,  and  was  promising 
Pauline  to  receive  her  dividends  for  her  and  advise  her  on  the 
question  of  investments. 

And  precisely  at  that  moment  Ve"ronique  was  bustling  about 
amongst  her  pans  down  below.  She  had  crept  upstairs, 
and,  with  her  ear  at  the  keyhole,  had  overheard  the  state- 
ment of  accounts.  For  several  weeks  past  a  slowly  growing 
feeling  of  pity  and  affection  for  Pauline  had  been  driving 
away  her  remaining  prejudices  against  the  girl. 

'  Ton  my  word,  they  have  swindled  her  out  of  half  her 
money  ! '  she  angrily  growled.  '  It's  not  right  1  Although 
she  had  no  business  to  come  and  settle  herself  down  here, 
still  that  was  no  reason  why  they  should  strip  her  as  bare  as 
a  worm.  No  1  no !  I  know  what  is  right,  and  I  shall  end 
by  quite  loving  the  poor  child  I ' 


IV 

ON  the  following  Saturday,  when  Louise,  who  had  come  on  a 
two  months'  visit  to  the  Chanteaus,  stepped  on  to  the  terrace, 
she  found  the  family  there.  The  hot  August  day  was  draw- 
ing to  a  close,  and  a  cool  breeze  rose  up  from  the  sea. 
Abbe"  Horteur  had  already  made  his  appearance,  and  was 
playing  draughts  with  Chanteau.  Madame  Cbanfceau  sat 
near  them,  embroidering  a  handkerchief ;  and,  a  few  yards 
further  away,  Pauline  stood  in  front  of  a  stone  seat  on  which 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  91 

she  had  placed  four  children  from  the  village,  two  little  lada 
and  two  little  girls. 

'  What !  you  have  got  here  already ! '  cried  Madame 
Chanteau.  'I  was  just  folding  up  my  work  to  go  and  meet 
you  at  the  cross-roads.' 

Louise  gaily  explained  that  old  Malivoire  had  flown  along 
like  the  wind.  She  was  all  right,  she  said,  and  did  not  even 
want  to  change  her  dress ;  and,  while  her  godmother  went 
off  to  see  about  her  room,  she  hung  her  hat  on  the  hasp  of 
a  shutter.  She  kissed  them  all  round,  and  then,  all  smiling 
and  caressing,  threw  her  arms  round  Pauline's  waist. 

'  Now,  look  at  me,'  she  said.  '  Good  gracious  !  how  we 
have  grown  !  I'm  turned  nineteen  now,  you  know,  and  am 
getting  quite  an  old  maid.' 

And  after  a  moment's  silence  she  added  rapidly  : 

'  By  the  way,  I  must  congratulate  you.  Oh  !  don't  look 
so  shy  !  I  hear  it  is  settled  for  next  month.' 

Pauline  had  returned  her  caresses  with  the  grave  affection 
of  an  elder  sister,  although  in  reality  she  was  the  younger 
by  some  eighteen  months.  A  slight  blush  rose  to  her  cheeks 
at  the  reference  to  her  marriage  with  Lazare. 

'  Oh,  no  !  you  have  been  misinformed,  really,'  she  replied. 
'  Nothing  is  definitely  fixed,  but  it  will  perhaps  be  some  time 
in  the  autumn.' 

Madame  Chanteau,  when  pressed  on  the  subject,  had 
indeed  spoken  of  the  autumn,  in  spite  of  her  unwillingness 
to  commit  herself  to  the  match,  an  unwillingness  which  the 
two  young  people  were  beginning  to  notice.  She  was  again 
beginning  to  harp  upon  her  old  excuse  for  delay,  saying  that 
she  should  much  prefer  them  waiting  till  Lazare  should  have 
acquired  some  definite  position. 

'  Ah !  I  see,'  said  Louise,  '  you  want  to  make  a  secret  of  it. 
Well,  never  mind  ;  but  you'll  ask  me  to  come,  won't  you  ? 
Where's  Lazare  ?  Isn't  he  here  ? ' 

Chanteau,  who  had  just  suffered  a  defeat  at  the  hands  of 
the  priest,  here  joined  in  the  conversation,  saying  : 

'  Haven't  you  seen  anything  of  him,  Louise  ?  We  were 
expecting  you  to  get  here  together.  He  has  gone  to  Bayeux 
to  make  an  application  to  the  Sub-Prefect,  but  he  will  be  back 
again  this  evening — almost  directly,  I  should  think.' 

Then  he  turned  to  the  draught-board  to  commence  a  fresh 
game. 

'I  move  first  this  time,  Abbe".      We  shall  manage  to 


92  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

get  those  famous  dykes  made,  I  fancy ;  for  the  department 
surely  can't  refuse  to  make  us  a  grant  to  help  on  the  under- 
taking.' 

He  was  referring  to  a  new  scheme  which  Lazare  had 
taken  up  with  his  usual  enthusiasm.  During  the  spring-tides 
of  the  previous  March  the  sea  had  again  carried  away  a 
couple  of  houses  at  Bonneville.  Devoured  bit  by  bit  on  its 
narrow  bed  of  shingle,  the  village,  it  was  clear,  would  be  driven 
to  the  very  cliff  unless  some  substantial  protecting  works 
were  quickly  built.  But  the  little  place,  with  its  thirty 
cottages,  was  of  such  slight  importance  in  the  world  that 
Chanteau,  as  Mayor,  had  for  the  last  ten  years  been  vainly 
calling  the  Sub-Prefect's  attention  to  the  perilous  position  of 
the  villagers.  At  last  Lazare,  spurred  on  by  Pauline,  whose 
great  wish  was  to  see  her  cousin  actively  employed,  had 
conceived  a  grand  idea  of  a  system  of  piles  and  breakwaters 
which  would  keep  back  the  ravages  of  the  sea.  However, 
money  was  wanted,  and  at  least  twelve  thousand  francs  would 
be  necessary. 

'  Ah  1  I  must  huff  you,  my  friend,'  said  the  priest,  taking 
one  of  Chanteau's  pieces. 

Then  he  launched  out  into  details  of  old  Bonneville. 

'  The  old  folks  say  that  there  was  once  a  farm  below  the 
church,  quite  half  a  mile  and  more  from  the  present  shore. 
For  five  hundred  years  the  sea  has  been  gradually  eating 
away  the  land.  It  is  surely  a  punishment  for  the  sins  of  their 
ancestors.' 

Pauline,  however,  had  now  returned  to  the  stone  seat, 
where  the  four  young  ones  were  waiting,  dirty,  ragged,  and 
open-mouthed. 

'  Who  is  it  you've  got  there  ?  '  Louise  asked  her,  not  daring 
to  venture  too  near  them. 

4  Oh !  they  are  some  little  friends  of  mine,'  Pauline  replied. 

The  girl's  active  charity  now  spread  all  over  the  neighbour- 
hood. She  had  an  instinctive  affection  for  the  wretched,  and 
she  was  never  repelled  by  their  forlorn  condition.  She  even 
carried  this  feeling  so  far  as  to  patch  up  the  broken  legs  of 
fowls  with  splinters  of  wood,  and  to  set  bowls  of  pap  outside 
at  night  for  homeless  cats.  Distress  of  every  kind  was  a 
source  of  continual  occupation  to  her,  and  to  alleviate  it  was 
her  great  pleasure.  So  the  poor  flocked  round  her  with  out- 
stretched hands,  just  as  pilfering  sparrows  swarm  round 
the  open  windows  of  a  corn-loft.  All  Bonneville,  with  its 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  93 

handful  of  fishermen  thrown  into  distress  by  the  sweeping 
spring-tides,  came  up  to  see  the  'young  lady,'  as  they  called  her. 
But  it  was  the  children  who  were  her  especial  favourites,  the 
little  things  with  ragged  clothes,  through  which  their  pink 
flesh  peeped,  poor,  frail-looking,  half-fed  creatures,  whose  eyes 
glistened  wolfishly  at  the  slices  of  bread  and  butter  that  she 
brought  out  for  them.  The  cunning  parents  took  advantage  of 
Pauline's  love  for  the  children,  making  it  a  custom  to  send 
her  the  most  sickly  and  ragged  that  they  had,  in  order  that 
they  might  increase  her  commiseration. 

'  You  see,'  she  said,  with  a  smile,  '  I  have  my  day  at  home, 
Saturday,  just  like  a  fashionable  lady,  and  my  friends  come 
to  see  me.  Now,  now  !  little  Gonin,  just  give  over  pinching 
that  silly  Houtelard.  I  shall  be  cross  with  you  if  you  don't 
behave  better.  Now,  we  will  begin  in  order.' 

Then  the  distribution  commenced.  She  lectured  them, 
and  hustled  them  about  in  quite  a  maternal  manner.  The 
first  she  called  up  to  her  was  young  Houtelard,  a  lad  of  some 
ten  years,  with  a  sallow  complexion  and  a  gloomy  timid  expres- 
sion. He  began  to  show  her  his  leg.  A  big  strip  of  skin  had 
been  torn  from  the  knee,  and  his  father  had  sent  him  to  let 
the  young  lady  see  it,  so  that  she  might  give  him  something 
for  it.  It  was  Pauline  who  supplied  arnica  and  liniments  to 
all  the  country  round.  The  pleasure  she  took  in  healing  had 
resulted  in  the  gradual  acquisition  of  a  complete  collection  of 
drugs,  of  which  she  was  very  proud.  When  she  had  attended 
to  the  lad's  knee,  she  lowered  her  voice  and  proceeded  to  give 
Louise  some  particulars  about  his  relations. 

'  They  are  quite  well-to-do  people,  those  Houtelards,  you 
know  ;  the  only  well-to-do  fisher-folks  in  Bonneville.  That 
big  smack,  you  know,  belongs  to  them.  But  they  are  fright- 
fully avaricious,  and  live  real  dogs'  lives  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  horrible  filth.  The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  the  father,  after 
beating  his  wife  to  death,  has  married  his  servant,  a  dreadful 
woman,  who  is  even  harsher  than  himself,  and  between  them 
they  are  gradually  murdering  the  poor  child.' 

Then,  without  taking  notice  of  her  friend's  repugnance, 
she  raised  her  voice  again,  and  called  another  of  the  children. 

'  Now,  little  one,  you  come  here ;  have  you  drunk  your 
bottle  of  quinine-wine  ? ' 

This  child  was  the  little  daughter  of  Prouane,  the  verger. 
She  looked  like  an  infant  Saint  Theresa,  marked  all  over  with 
scrofula,  flushed  and  frightfully  thin,  with  big  eyes,  in  which 


94  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

hysteria  was  already  gleaming.  She  was  eleven  years  old, 
but  seemed  to  be  scarcely  seven. 

'  Yes,  Mademoiselle,'  she  stammered ;  'I  have  drunk  it  all.' 

'  You  little  story-teller ! '  cried  the  priest,  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  draught-board.  '  Your  father  smelt  strongly 
of  wine  last  night.' 

Pauline  looked  extremely  annoyed.  The  Prouanes  had 
no  boat,  but  made  their  living  by  catching  crabs  and  shrimps 
and  gathering  mussels.  With  the  additional  profits  of  the 
vergership  they  might  have  lived  in  decent  comfort  if  it  had 
not  been  for  their  drinking  habits.  The  father  and  mother 
were  often  to  be  seen  lying  in  their  doorway  stupefied  by 
'  calvados,'  the  strong,  raw,  cyder-brandy  of  Normandy,  while 
the  little  girl  stepped  over  their  legs  to  drain  their  glasses. 
When  no  '  calvados '  was  to  be  had,  Prouane  drank  his 
daughter's  quinine-wine. 

'  And  to  think  I  took  so  much  trouble  to  make  it  for  you  ! ' 
said  Pauline.  '  Well,  for  the  future,  I  shall  keep  the  bottle 
here,  and  you  will  have  to  come  up  every  afternoon  at  five 
o'clock.  And  I  will  give  you  a  little  minced  raw  meat.  The 
doctor  has  ordered  it  for  you.' 

It  was  next  the  turn  of  a  big  twelve-year-old  boy,  Cuche's 
son,  a  lean  and  scraggy  stripling.  Pauline  gave  him  a  loaf, 
some  stewed  meat,  and  also  a  five-franc  piece.  His  was 
another  wretched  story.  After  the  destruction  of  their  house 
Cuche  had  deserted  his  wife,  and  gone  to  live  with  a  female 
cousin,  and  the  wife  was  now  taking  refuge  in  an  old  dila- 
pidated Coastguard  watch-house,  where  she  led  an  immoral 
life.  The  lad,  who  kept  with  her  and  shared  the  little  she 
had,  was  almost  starving,  but  whenever  any  suggestion  was 
made  of  rescuing  him  from  that  wretched  den  he  bolted  off 
like  a  wild  goat.  Louise  turned  her  head  away  with  an  air 
of  disgust  when  Pauline,  without  the  slightest  embarrass- 
ment, told  her  the  boy's  story.  She,  Pauline,  had  grown  up 
in  a  free  unrestrained  way,  and  looked  with  charity's  unflinch- 
ing eye  upon  the  vices  of  humanity.  Louise,  on  the  other 
hand,  initiated  into  knowledge  of  life  by  ten  years  spent  at 
boarding-schools,  blushed  at  the  ideas  which  Pauline's  words 
suggested.  In  her  estimation  these  were  matters  which 
people  thought  of,  but  should  not  mention. 

'  The  other  little  girl  there,'  Pauline  went  on,  '  that  fair- 
haired  little  child,  who  is  so  rosy  and  bonny,  is  the  daughter 
of  the  Gonins,  with  whom  that  rascal  Cuche  has  taken  up  his 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  95 

quarters.  She  is  nine  years  old.  The  Gonins  were  once  very 
comfortably  off,  and  had  a  smack  of  their  own,  but  the  father 
was  attacked  with  paralysis  in  the  legs,  a  very  common  com- 
plaint in  our  villages  about  here,  and  Cuche,  who  was  only  a 
common  seaman  to  begin  with,  soon  made  himself  the  master. 
Now  the  whole  house  belongs  to  him,  and  he  bullies  the  poor 
old  man,  who  passes  his  days  and  nights  inside  an  old  coal- 
chest,  while  Cuche  and  the  wife  lord  it  over  him.  I  look 
after  the  child  myself,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  comes  in  for 
a  good  many  cuffings  at  home,  and  is  unfortunately  much  too 
shrewd  and  noticing.' 

Here  Pauline  stopped  and  turned  to  the  child  to  question 
her. 

'  How  are  they  all  getting  on  at  home  ? '  she  asked. 

The  child  had  watched  Pauline  while  the  latter  was 
explaining  matters  in  an  undertone.  Her  pretty  but  vicious 
face  smiled  slyly  at  what  she  guessed  was  being  said. 

'  Oh,  they've  beaten  him  again,'  she  said,  still  continuing 
to  smile.  '  Last  night  mother  got  up  and  caught  hold  of  a 
log  of  wood.  Ah  !  Mademoiselle,  it  would  be  very  good  of 
you  to  give  father  a  little  wine,  for  they  have  put  an  empty 
jug  by  the  chest,  telling  him  that  he  may  drink  till  he  bursts.' 

Louise  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  What  horrible  people ! 
How  could  Pauline  take  any  interest  in  such  dreadful  things  ? 
Was  it  really  possible  that  near  a  big  town  like  Caen  there 
existed  such  hideous  places,  where  people  lived  in  that  utterly 
barbarous  fashion  ? l  For,  surely,  they  could  be  nothing  less 
than  savages,  to  thus  trample  under  foot  all  law,  both  divine 
and  human. 

'  There  !  there  !  I  have  had  quite  enough  of  your  young 
friends,'  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  she  went  to  sit  down  near 
Chanteau.  '  I  should  not  mourn  for  them  very  much  if  the 
sea  were  to  sweep  them  all  away.' 

The  Abbe  had  just  crowned  a  king. 

'  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  !  '  he  cried.  '  I  have  been  warn- 
ing them  for  the  last  twenty  years.  Well,  it  will  be  so  much 
the  worse  for  them.' 

'  I  have  asked  to  have  a  school  built  here,'  said  Chanteau, 
feeling  a  little  distressed,  as  he  saw  the  game  going  against 
him;  'but  there  aren't  people  enough.  The  children  ought 

1  The  English  tourist  goes  cycling  and  snap-shotting  through  the 
picturesque  Norman  villages,  never  dreaming,  as  a  rule,  that  he  is 
amongst  the  most  sottish  and  vicious  of  all  the  French  peasantry. — ED. 


gt  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

to  go  to  Verchemont,  but  they  don't  like  school,  and  only  play 
about  on  the  roads  when  they  are  sent  there.' 

Pauline  looked  up  in  surprise.  If  the  poor  things  were 
clean,  she  was  thinking,  there  would  be  no  necessity  to 
attempt  to  make  them  so.  Wickedness  and  wretchedness 
went  together,  and  she  felt  in  no  way  repelled  by  suffering, 
even  when  it  seemed  to  be  the  consequence  of  vice.  But 
she  confined  herself  to  asserting  her  charitable  tolerance 
with  a  gesture  of  protest.  Then  she  went  on  to  promise  little 
Gonin  that  she  would  go  to  see  her  father  ;  and  while  she 
was  doing  so  Veronique  appeared  upon  the  scene,  pushing 
another  little  girl  in  front  of  her. 

'  Here's  another,  Mademoiselle.' 

The  new-comer,  who  was  very  young,  certainly  not  more 
than  five  years  old,  was  completely  in  rags,  with  black  face 
and  matted  hair.  With  all  the  readiness  of  one  already 
accustomed  to  begging  on  the  high-roads  she  at  once  began 
to  whine  and  groan  : 

'  Please  take  pity  upon  me.  My  poor  father  has  broken 
his  leg ' 

'  It's  Tourmal's  girl,  isn't  it  ? '  asked  Pauline  of  Ve"ro- 
nique. 

But  before  the  servant  could  reply  the  priest  broke  out 
angrily : 

'  The  little  hussy !  Don't  take  any  notice  of  her.  Her 
father  has  been  pretending  to  break  his  leg  for  the  last  five- 
and-twenty  years.  They  are  a  family  of  swindlers,  who  only 
live  by  thieving.  The  father  helps  the  smugglers.  The 
mother  pilfers  in  all  the  fields  about  Verchemont,  and  the 
grandfather  prowls  about  at  night,  stealing  oysters  from  the 
Government  beds  at  Boqueboise.  You  can  see  for  yourselves 
what  they  are  making  of  their  daughter — a  little  thief  and  a 
beggar,  whom  they  send  to  people's  houses  to  lay  her  hands 
upon  anything  that  may  happen  to  be  lying  about.  Just 
look  how  she  is  glancing  at  my  snuff-box ! ' 

The  child's  eyes,  indeed,  after  inquisitively  examining 
every  corner  of  the  terrace,  had  flashed  brightly  on  catching 
sight  of  the  priest's  old  snuff-box.  She  was  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  abashed  by  the  Abbe's  account  of  her  family  history, 
but  repeated  her  petition  as  calmly  as  though  he  had  not 
spoken  a  word. 

'  He  has  broken  his  leg.  Please,  kind  young  lady,  help  us 
with  a  trifle.' 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  97 

This  time  Louise  broke  out  into  a  laugh.  That  little 
five-year-old  impostor,  who  was  already  as  scampish  as  her 
parents,  quite  amused  her.  Pauline,  however,  remained 
perfectly  grave  and  serious,  and  took  a  new  five-franc  piece 
from  her  purse. 

'  Now,  listen  to  me,'  she  said ;  '  I  will  give  you  as  much 
every  Saturday  if  I  hear  a  good  account  of  you  during  the 
week.' 

'  Look  after  the  spoons,  then,'  Abbe"  Horteur  cried,  '  or  she 
will  walk  off  with  some  of  them.' 

Pauline  made  no  reply  to  this  remark,  but  dismissed  the 
children,  who  slouched  off  with  exclamations  of  '  Thank  you 
kindly '  and  '  May  God  reward  you  !  ' 

While  this  scene  had  been  taking  place  Madame  Chanteau, 
who  had  just  come  back  from  the  house,  whither  she  had 
gone  to  give  a  glance  at  Louise's  room,  was  muttering  with 
vexation  at  Veronique.  It  was  quite  intolerable  that  the 
servant  should  take  upon  herself  to  introduce  those  wretched 
beggars.  Mademoiselle  herself  brought  quite  sufficient  of  them 
to  the  house.  A  lot  of  scum,  who  robbed  her  of  her  money 
and  then  laughed  at  her !  Of  course  the  money  was  her  own, 
and  she  could  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  it  if  she  were 
so  disposed,  but  it  was  really  becoming  quite  immoral  to 
encourage  vice  in  this  way.  She  had  heard  Pauline  promise 
a  hundred  sous  a  week  to  the  little  Tourmal  girl.  Another 
twenty  francs  a  month  !  The  fortune  of  an  emperor  would 
not  suffice  for  such  perpetual  extravagance  ! 

'  You  know  very  well,'  she  said  to  Pauline, '  that  I  hate  to 
see  that  little  thief  here.  Though  you  are  now  the  mistress 
of  your  fortune,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  ruin  yourself  so  fool- 
ishly. I  am  morally  responsible.  Yes,  my  dear,  I  repeat 
that  you  are  ruining  yourself,  and  more  quickly  than  you 
have  any  notion  of.' 

Veronique,  who  had  gone  back  to  her  kitchen,  fuming  with 
anger  at  Madame  Chanteau's  reprimand,  now  reappeared. 

'  The  butcher's  here  !  '  she  cried  roughly.  '  He  wants  his 
bill  settled ;  forty-six  francs  ten  centimes.' 

A  pang  of  vexation  curtailed  Madame  Chanteau's  remarks. 
She  fumbled  in  her  pocket,  and  then,  assuming  an  expression 
of  surprise,  she  whispered  to  Pauline : 

'  Have  you  got  as  much  about  you,  my  dear  ?  I  have  no 
change  here,  and  I  shall  have  to  go  upstairs.  I  will  give  it 
you  back  very  shortly.' 

H 


98  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Pauline  went  off  with  the  servant  to  pay  the  butcher. 
Since  she  had  begun  to  keep  her  money  in  her  chest  of  drawers 
the  same  old  comedy  had  been  enacted  each  time  a  bill  was 
presented  for  payment.  It  waa  a  systematic  levy  of  small 
amounts  which  had  grown  to  be  quite  a  matter  of  course. 
Her  aunt  no  longer  troubled  to  go  and  withdraw  the  money 
herself,  but  asked  Pauline  for  it,  and  thus  made  the  girl  rob 
herself  with  her  own  hands.  At  first  there  had  been  a 
pretence  of  settling  accounts,  and  sums  of  ten  and  fifteen 
francs  had  been  repaid  to  her,  but  afterwards  matters  got  so 
complicated  that  a  settlement  was  deferred  till  later  on,  when 
the  marriage  should  take  place.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  they 
took  care  that  she  should  pay  for  her  board  with  the  greatest 
punctuality  on  the  first  day  of  every  month,  the  sum  due  in 
this  respect  being  now  raised  to  ninety  francs. 

'  There's  some  more  of  your  money  making  itself  scarce ! 
growled  V6ronique  in  the  passage.     '  If  I  had  been  you,  I 
would  have  told  her  to   go   and  find  her  change.     It  is 
abominable  that  you  should  be  plundered  in  this  way  I ' 

When  Pauline  came  back  with  the  receipted  account, 
which  she  handed  to  her  aunt,  the  priest  was  radiant  with 
triumph.  Chanteau  was  vanquished;  he  had  not  a  piece 
which  he  could  move.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  sea 
was  crimsoned  by  its  oblique  rays,  while  the  tide  lazily  rose. 
Louise,  with  a  far-off  look  in  her  eyes,  smiled  at  the  bright 
and  wide-stretching  horizon. 

'  There's  our  little  Louise  up  in  the  clouds,'  said  Madame 
Chanteau.  '  I  have  had  your  trunk  taken  upstairs,  Louisette. 
We  are  next-door  neighbours  again.' 

Lazare  did  not  return  home  till  the  following  day.  After 
his  visit  to  the  Sub-Prefect  at  Bayeux  he  had  taken  it  into 
his  head  to  go  on  to  Caen  and  see  the  Prefect.  And,  though 
he  was  not  bringing  an  actual  subvention  back  in  his  pocket, 
he  was  convinced,  he  said,  that  the  General  Council1  would 
vote  at  the  least  a  sum  of  twelve  thousand  francs.  The 
Prefect  had  accompanied  him  to  the  door  and  had  bound 
himself  by  formal  promises,  saying  that  it  was  impossible 
Bonneville  should  be  left  to  its^ate,  and  that  the  authorities 
were  quite  prepared  to  back  up  the  efforts  of  the  inhabitants. 
Lazare,  however,  could  not  help  feeling  despondent,  for  he 
foresaw  all  sorts  of  delays,  and  the  least  delay  in  the  carrying- 
out  of  one  of  his  schemes  proved  agony  to  him. 

1  The  equivalent  of  the  English  County  Council.— ED. 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  99 

'  Upon  my  word  of  honour,'  he  cried,  '  if  I  had  the  twelve 
thousand  francs  myself,  I  should  be  delighted  to  advance 
them  I  For  the  first  experimental  proceedings,  indeed,  so 
much  would  not  be  necessary.  When  we  do  get  the  money 
voted,  you  will  see  what  a  heap  of  worries  and  delays  we  shall 
have  to  go  through.  We  shall  have  all  the  engineers  in  the 
department  down  here  on  our  backs.  But  if  we  could  make 
a  start  without  them,  they  would  be  obliged  to  acquiesce  in 
what  had  actually  been  done.  The  Prefect,  to  whom  I  briefly 
explained  our  plans,  was  quite  struck  with  their  advantage 
and  simplicity.' 

The  hope  of  overpowering  the  sea  now  thrilled  him 
feverishly.  He  had  felt  bitter  rancour  against  it  ever  since 
he  had  considered  it  responsible  for  his  failure  with  the  sea- 
weed scheme ;  and,  though  he  did  not  venture  to  openly  revile 
it,  he  harboured  the  thought  of  coming  vengeance.  And 
what  revenge  could  be  better  than  to  stay  it  in  its  course  of 
blind  destruction,  and  call  out  to  it,  like  its  master,  '  Thus 
far  and  no  farther  '  ? 

There  was,  also,  in  this  enterprise  an  element  of  phil- 
anthropy which,  joined  to  the  grandeur  of  the  contemplated 
struggle,  brought  his  excitement  to  a  climax.  When  his 
mother  saw  him  spending  his  days  cutting  out  pieces  of  wood 
and  burying  his  nose  in  treatises  on  mechanics,  she  thought, 
with  trembling,  of  his  grandfather,  the  enterprising  but 
blundering  carpenter,  whose  useless  masterpiece  lay  slumber- 
ing in  its  glass  case  on  the  mantelshelf.  Was  the  old  man 
going  to  live  over  again  in  his  grandson  to  consummate  the 
ruin  of  the  family  ?  Then  she  gradually  allowed  herself  to  be 
convinced  and  won  over  by  the  son  whom  she  worshipped. 
If  he  were  successful,  and,  of  course,  he  would  be  successful, 
this  would  be  the  first  step  to  fame,  glorious  and  disinterested 
work  which  would  make  him  celebrated.  With  this  as  a 
starting-point  he  might  easily  soar  as  high  as  ambition  might 
prompt  him.  Henceforth  the  whole  family  dreamt  of  nothing 
but  conquering  the  sea  and  of  chaining  it  to  the  foot  of  the 
terrace,  submissive  like  a  whipped  dog. 

Lazare's  scheme  was,  as  he  had  said,  one  of  great  simpli- 
city. He  proposed  to  drive  big  piles  into  the  sand,  and  to 
cover  them  with  planks.  Behind  these  the  shingle,  swept  up 
by  the  tide,  would  form  a  sort  of  impregnable  wall  against 
which  the  waves  would  break  powerlessly,  and,  by  this 
means,  the  sea  itself  would  build  the  barrier  which  was  to 

B  2 


too  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

keep  it  back.  A  number  of  groynes,  built  of  long  beams  carried 
upon  strong  rafters  forming  a  breakwater  in  front  of  the  wall 
of  shingle,  would  complete  the  works.  Afterwards,  if  they 
had  the  necessary  funds,  they  might  construct  two  or  three 
big  stockades,  whose  solid  mass  would  restrain  the  very 
highest  tides.  Lazare  had  found  the  first  idea  of  his  scheme 
in  a  '  Carpenter's  Complete  Handbook,'  a  little  volume  with 
quaint  engravings,  which  had  probably  been  bought  long  ago 
by  his  grandfather.  He  elaborated  and  perfected  the  idea, 
and  went  into  the  matter  pretty  deeply,  studying  the  theory 
of  forces  and  the  resistance  of  which  the  different  materials 
were  capable,  and  manifesting  considerable  pride  in  a  certain 
disposition  and  inclination  of  the  beams,  which,  said  he,  could 
not  fail  to  insure  absolute  success. 

Pauline  once  more  showed  great  interest  in  her  cousin's 
studies.  Like  the  young  man's,  her  curiosity  was  always 
aroused  by  experiments  in  strange  things.  But,  with  her 
more  calculating  nature,  she  did  not  deceive  herself  as  to 
the  possibility  of  failure.  When  she  saw  the  tide  mount  up, 
her  eyes  wandered  with  an  expression  of  doubt  to  the  models 
which  Lazare  had  made,  the  miniature  piles  and  groynes  and 
stockades.  The  big  room  was  now  quite  full  of  them. 

One  night  the  girl  lingered  till  very  late  at  her  window. 
For  the  last  two  days  her  cousin  had  been  talking  of  burning 
all  his  models ;  and  one  evening,  as  they  all  sat  round  the 
table,  he  had  exclaimed  in  a  sudden  outburst  that  he  was 
going  off  to  Australia,  as  there  was  no  room  for  him  in 
France.  Pauline  was  meditating  over  all  this  by  her  window, 
while  the  flood-tide  dashed  against  Bonneville  in  the  dark- 
ness. Each  shock  of  the  waves  made  her  quiver,  and  she 
seemed  to  hear,  at  regular  intervals,  the  cries  of  poor 
creatures  whom  the  sea  was  swallowing  up.  Then  the 
struggle  which  was  still  waging  within  her  between  love  of 
money  and  natural  kindliness  became  unendurable,  and  she 
closed  the  window,  that  she  might  no  longer  hear.  But  the 
distant  blows  still  seemed  to  shake  her  as  she  lay  in  bed. 
Why  not  try  to  attempt  even  what  seemed  impossible? 
What  would  it  matter,  throwing  all  this  money  into  the  sea, 
if  there  were  yet  a  single  chance  of  saving  the  village? 
And  she  fell  asleep  at  daybreak  dreaming  of  the  joy  her 
cousin  would  feel  when  he  should  find  himself  released  from 
all  his  brooding  melancholy,  set  at  last  perhaps  on  the 
right  path,  happy  through  her,  indebted  to  her  for  everything. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  101 

In  the  morning,  before  going  downstairs,  she  called  him. 
She  was  laughing. 

'  Do  you  know  that  last  night  I  dreamt  that  I  had  lent 
you  those  twelve  thousand  francs  ?  ' 

But  Lazare  became  angry  and  refused  in  violent  words : 
'  Do  you  want  to  make  me  set  off  and  never  come  back 
again  ?  No !  we  lost  quite  enough  over  the  sea-weed  works. 
I  am  really  dying  of  shame  about  it,  though  I  told  you 
nothing.' 

Two  hours  later,  however,  he  accepted  Pauline's  offer, 
and  pressed  her  hands  in  a  passionate  outburst  of  gratitude. 
It  was  to  be  an  advance  and  nothing  more.  Her  money 
would  be  running  no  risk,  for  there  was  not  the  least  doubt 
that  the  subvention  would  be  voted  by  the  Council,  the  more 
especially  if  operations  were  actually  commenced.  That 
very  evening  the  Arrornancb.es  carpenter  was  called  in.  There 
were  endless  consultations  and  walks  along  the  coast,  with  a 
perpetual  discussion  of  estimates.  The  whole  family  went 
wild  over  the  scheme. 

Madame  Chanteau,  however,  had  first  flown  into  a 
tantrum  on  hearing  of  the  loan  of  the  twelve  thousand  francs. 
Lazare  was  astonished,  unable  to  understand.  His  mother 
overwhelmed  him  with  strange  arguments.  No  doubt,  said 
she,  Pauline  advanced  small  sums  to  them  from  time  to 
time,  but,  if  this  kind  of  thing  were  to  go  on,  she  would 
begin  to  think  herself  indispensable.  It  would  have  been 
better  to  have  asked  Louise's  father  for  an  advance.  Louise 
herself,  who  would  have  a  dowry  of  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,  did  not  make  nearly  so  much  fuss  about  her  money. 
Those  two  hundred  thousand  francs  of  Louise's  were  ever  on 
Madame  Chanteau's  lips,  and  seemed  to  fill  her  with  angry 
contempt  for  the  remnants  of  that  other  fortune  which  had 
dwindled  away  in  the  secretaire  and  was  still  dwindling  in 
the  chest  of  drawers. 

Chanteau,  too,  instigated  by  his  wife,  pretended  to  be 
greatly  vexed.  Pauline  felt  very  much  hurt.  She  recog- 
nised that  they  loved  her  less  now,  even  though  she  was 
giving  them  her  money.  There  seemed  to  be  a  bitter  feeling 
against  her,  which  increased  day  by  day,  though  she  could 
not  even  guess  the  cause  of  it.  As  for  Doctor  Cazenove, 
he  found  fault  with  her,  too,  when  she  mentioned  the  subject 
to  him  as  a  matter  of  form,  but  he  had  been  obliged  to 
acquiesce  in  all  the  loans,  the  large  as  well  as  the  small 


io2  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

ones.  His  office  of  trustee  was  a  mere  fiction ;  he  found 
himself  quite  disarmed  in  that  house,  where  he  was  always 
received  as  an  old  friend.  On  the  day  when  the  twelve 
thousand  francs  were  lent  to  Lazare  he  renounced  all  further 
responsibility. 

1  My  dear,'  he  said,  as  he  took  Pauline  aside,  '  I  cannot  go 
on  being  your  accomplice.  Don't  consult  me  any  more ;  ruin 
yourself  just  as  you  like.  You  know  very  well  that  I  can 
never  resist  your  entreaties ;  but  I  am  really  very  much 
troubled  about  them  afterwards.  I  would  rather  remain 
ignorant  of  what  I  cannot  approve.' 

Pauline  looked  at  him,  deeply  moved.  After  a  moment's 
silence  she  replied : 

'  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend.  But  am  I  not  really  taking 
the  right  course  ?  If  it  makes  me  happy,  what  does  anything 
else  matter  ? ' 

He  took  her  hands  within  his  own  and  pressed  them  in  a 
fatherly  manner,  with  an  expression  of  affection  that  was 
tinged  with  sadness. 

'  Well !  if  it  does  make  you  happy !  After  all,  one  has  to 
pay  quite  as  much  sometimes  to  make  one's  self  miserable.' 

As  might  have  been  expected,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
approaching  struggle  with  the  sea  Lazare  had  entirely 
abandoned  his  music.  There  was  a  coating  of  dust  upon  the 
piano,  and  the  score  of  his  great  symphony  was  put  away  at 
the  bottom  of  a  drawer ;  a  service  which  he  owed  to  Pauline, 
who  collected  the  different  sheets  together,  finding  some  of 
them  hidden  even  behind  the  furniture.  With  certain  por- 
tions of  the  work  he  had  grown  much  dissatisfied,  and  had 
begun  to  think  that  the  celestial  joy  of  final  annihilation, 
which  he  had  expressed  in  a  somewhat  commonplace  fashion 
in  waltz  time,  would  be  better  rendered  by  a  very  slow 
march.  One  evening,  indeed,  he  had  declared  that  he  would 
re-write  the  whole  work  when  he  had  the  leisure. 

His  flash  of  desire  and  feeling  of  uneasiness  in  the  society 
of  his  young  cousin  seemed  to  disappear  when  his  musical 
enthusiasm  drooped.  His  masterpiece  must  be  deferred  to  a 
more  suitable  time,  and  his  passion,  which  he  also  seemed 
able  to  advance  or  retard,  must  be  similarly  postponed.  He 
again  began  to  treat  Pauline  as  an  old  friend  or  long  since 
wedded  wife,  who  would  fall  into  his  arms  as  soon  as  ever 
he  chose  to  open  them.  Since  April  they  had  not  shut 
themselves  up  in  the  house  so  much,  and  the  fresh  air 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  103 

brought  life  and  colour  to  their  cheeks.  The  big  room  was 
deserted,  while  they  rambled  about  the  rocky  shore  of 
Bonneville,  studying  the  best  situations  for  the  piles  and 
stockades.  And,  after  dabbling  about  in  the  water,  they 
came  home  as  tired  and  as  easy  in  mind  as  in  the  far-away 
days  of  childhood.  When  Pauline  sometimes  played  the 
famous  March  of  Death  to  tease  him,  Lazare  would  cry  out : 

'  Do  be  quiet !    What  a  lot  of  rubbish  ! ' 

On  the  evening  of  the  carpenter's  visit,  however,  Chanteau 
was  seized  with  another  attack  of  gout.  He  now  had  a 
fresh  attack  almost  every  month.  The  salicylic  treatment, 
which  at  first  had  given  him  some  relief,  seemed  in  the  end 
to  add  to  the  violence  of  his  seizures.  For  a  fortnight 
Pauline  remained  a  close  prisoner  at  her  uncle's  bedside. 
Lazare,  who  was  continuing  his  investigations  on  the  beach, 
then  invited  Louise  to  go  with  him,  by  way  of  freeing  her 
from  the  cries  of  the  sick  man,  which  quite  frightened  her. 
As  she  occupied  the  guests'  bedroom,  the  one  just  above 
Chanteau's,  she  had  to  stuff  her  fingers  into  her  ears  and 
bury  her  head  in  the  pillows  at  night-time  in  order  to  get 
some  sleep.  But  when  she  was  out  of  doors  she  became 
radiant  again,  enjoying  the  walk  immensely  and  forgetting 
all  about  the  poor  man  groaning  in  the  house. 

They  had  a  delightful  fortnight.  The  young  man  had  at 
first  gazed  on  his  companion  with  surprise.  She  was  a  great 
change  from  Pauline ;  she  cried  out  whenever  a  crab  scuttled 
past  her  shoe,  and  was  so  frightened  of  the  sea  that  she 
thought  she  was  going  to  be  drowned  whenever  she  had  to 
jump  over  a  pool.  The  shingle  hurt  her  little  feet,  she 
never  relinquished  her  sunshade,  and  was  for  ever  gloved 
up  to  her  elbows,  being  in  a  constant  state  of  fear  lest  her 
delicate  skin  should  be  exposed  to  the  sun's  rays.  After  his 
first  astonishment,  however,  Lazare  allowed  himself  to  be 
attracted  by  her  pretty  airs  of  timidity,  and  her  weakness, 
that  ever  seemed  to  be  appealing  to  him  for  assistance.  She 
did  not  smell  simply  of  the  breezy  air,  like  Pauline ;  she 
intoxicated  him  with  a  warm  odour  of  heliotrope,  and  he  no 
longer  had  a  boy-like  companion  at  his  side,  but  a  young 
woman,  whose  presence  now  and  then  sent  his  blood  pulsing 
hotly  through  his  veins.  True,  she  was  not  as  pretty  as 
Pauline ;  she  was  older,  and  seemed  already  a  little  faded, 
but  there  was  a  bewitching  charm  about  her ;  her  small  limbs 
moved  with  easy  supple  motion,  and  her  whole  coquettish 


io4  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

figure  seemed  instinct  with  promises  of  bliss.  She  appeared 
to  Lazare  to  be  quite  a  discovery  on  his  part;  he  could 
recognise  in  her  no  trace  of  the  scraggy  little  girl  he 
had  formerly  known.  Was  it  really  possible  that  long  years 
at  boarding-school  had  turned  that  very  ordinary-looking 
child  into  such  a  disquieting  young  woman,  who,  maiden 
though  she  was,  seemed  by  no  means  shy  ?  Little  by  little 
Lazare  found  himself  possessed  by  growing  admiration, 
disturbing  passion,  in  which  the  mere  friendship  of  childhood 
disappeared. 

When  Pauline  was  able  to  leave  her  uncle's  bedroom  and 
resume  companionship  with  Lazare,  she  immediately  noticed 
a  change  between  him  and  Louise,  unaccustomed  glances  and 
laughs,  in  which  she  had  no  share.  For  the  first  few  days 
she  maintained  a  sort  of  maternal  attitude,  treating  the  pair 
as  foolish  young  things  whom  a  mere  nothing  was  sufficient 
to  amuse.  But  she  soon  grew  low-spirited,  and  the  walks 
they  all  took  abroad  seemed  to  weary  her.  She  never  made 
any  complaint,  she  simply  spoke  of  persistent  headaches  ;  but, 
later  on,  when  her  cousin  advised  her  to  stay  at  home,  she 
became  vexed,  and  would  not  quit  him  even  in  the  house. 
On  one  occasion,  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Lazare, 
who  had  sat  up  in  his  room  working  at  a  plan,  thought  he 
heard  some  steps  outside,  and  opened  his  door  to  look. 
Thereupon  he  was  astonished  to  see  Pauline  in  her  petticoats 
leaning  over  the  banisters  in  the  dark,  and  listening.  She 
declared  that  she  thought  she  had  heard  a  cry  downstairs. 
But  she  blushed  as  she  told  this  fib,  and  Lazare  did  the 
same,  for  a  suspicion  flashed  through  his  mind.  From  that 
night  forward,  without  anything  being  said,  friendly  relations 
suffered.  Lazare  considered  that  Pauline  made  herself  very 
ridiculous  by  pouting  and  sulking  about  mere  nothings,  while 
she,  continually  growing  more  gloomy,  never  once  left  her 
cousin  alone  with  Louise,  but  kept  a  strict  watch  over  them, 
and  tortured  herself  with  fancies  at  night  if  she  had  caught 
them  speaking  softly  to  each  other  as  they  walked  home  from 
the  shore. 

However,  the  work  had  begun.  A  body  of  carpenters, 
after  nailing  a  number  of  heavy  planks  across  a  framework 
of  piles,  succeeded  in  completing  a  first  buttress  against 
the  sea's  attack.  This  was  simply  meant  as  a  trial,  which 
they  hurried  along  with,  in  expectation  of  a  flood  tide.  If 
the  timbers  should  be  able  to  resist  the  sea's  approach,  then 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  105 

the  system  of  defence  would  be  completed.  It  unfortunately 
happened  that  the  weather  was  execrable.  Rain  fell  con- 
tinually, and  all  Bonneville  got  soaked  to  the  skin  in  going 
out  to  see  the  piles  rammed  into  the  sand.  Then,  on  the 
morning  when  the  high  tide  was  expected,  an  inky  pall  hung 
over  the  sea,  and,  from  eight  o'clock  the  rain  fell  with 
redoubled  violence,  hiding  the  horizon  with  a  dense  cold  mist. 
There  was  immense  disappointment,  for  the  Chanteaus  had 
been  planning  to  go  in  a  family  party  to  watch  the  victory 
which  their  beams  and  piles  would  win  over  the  attacking 
flood. 

Madame  Chanteau  determined  to  remain  at  home  with 
her  husband,  who  was  still  far  from  well.  Great  efforts, 
too,  were  made  to  induce  Pauline  to  stay  indoors,  as  she  had 
been  suffering  from  a  sore  throat  for  a  week  past,  and 
always  grew  a  little  feverish  towards  the  evening.  But  she 
rejected  all  the  prudent  advice  that  was  offered  her,  resolving 
to  go  down  to  the  beach,  since  Lazare  and  Louise  were  going. 
Louise,  fragile  as  she  appeared  to  be,  ever,  so  it  seemed,  on 
the  verge  of  fainting,  really  proved  a  girl  of  great  physical 
endurance,  particularly  when  any  kind  of  pleasure  made  her 
excited. 

They  all  three  set  off  after  breakfast.  A  sudden  breeze 
had  swept  away  the  clouds,  and  glad  smiles  hailed  the 
unexpected  change.  The  patches  of  blue  sky  overhead  were 
so  large,  though  they  still  mingled  with  black  masses,  that 
the  girls  refused  to  take  any  other  protection  than  their  sun- 
shades. Lazare  alone  carried  an  umbrella.  He  would  see 
that  they  came  to  no  harm,  he  said,  and  would  place 
them  under  shelter  somewhere  should  the  rain  begin  to 
fall  again. 

Pauline  and  Louise  walked  on  in  front.  However,  on  the 
steep  slope  leading  down  towards  Bonneville,  the  latter 
stumbled  on  the  wet  and  slippery  soil,  and  Lazare  rushed  up 
to  support  her.  Pauline  then  followed  behind  them.  Her 
high  spirits  quickly  fell,  as  with  a  jealous  glance  she  noticed 
her  cousin's  arm  pressed  closely  against  Louise's  waist. 
The  contact  of  the  two  soon  absorbed  her ;  all  else  disap- 
peared— the  beach,  where  the  fishermen  of  the  neighbour- 
hood stood  waiting  in  a  somewhat  scoffing  mood,  and  the 
rising  tide,  and  the  stockade  already  white  with  foam.  Away 
on  the  right  arose  a  mass  of  dark  clouds,  lashed  on  by  the 
gale. 


io6  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

'  What  a  nuisance  ! '  said  the  young  man  ;  '  we  are  going 
to  have  more  rain.  But  we  shall  have  time  to  see  things 
before  it  comes  on,  I  think,  and  then  we  can  take  refuge  close 
at  hand  with  the  Houtelards.' 

The  tide,  which  had  the  wind  against  it,  was  rising  with 
irritating  slowness.  The  wind  would  certainly  keep  it  from 
mounting  as  high  as  had  been  expected.  Still  no  one  left 
the  shore.  The  new  groyne,  which  was  now  half  covered, 
seemed  to  work  very  satisfactorily,  parting  the  waves,  whose 
diverted  waters  foamed  up  to  the  very  feet  of  the  spectators. 
But  the  greatest  triumph  was  the  successful  resistance  of  the 
piles.  As  each  wave  dashed  against  them,  sweeping  the 
shingle  with  it,  they  heard  the  stones  falling  and  collecting 
on  the  other  side  of  the  beams  with  a  noise  like  the 
sudden  discharge  of  a  cartload  of  pebbles;  and  this  wall 
which  was  thus  gradually  building  itself  up  seemed  to  guarantee 
success. 

'  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ? '  cried  Lazare.  '  You  won't  make 
any  more  jokes  about  it  now,  I  think  ! ' 

Prouane,  who  was  standing  near  him,  and  had  not  been 
sober  for  the  last  three  days,  shook  his  head,  however,  as  he 
stammered  :  '  We  shall  see  about  that  when  the  wind  blows 
against  it.' 

The  other  fishermen  kept  silent.  But  the  expression  on 
the  faces  of  Cuche  and  Houtelard  plainly  showed  that  they 
felt  little  confidence  in  all  such  contrivances ;  indeed,  they 
would  scarcely  have  felt  pleased  to  see  their  enemy  the  sea, 
which  crushed  them  so  victoriously,  beaten  back  by  that 
stripling  of  a  landsman.  How  they  would  laugh  when  the 
waves  some  day  carried  off  those  beams  like  so  many  straws  1 
The  very  village  might  be  dashed  to  pieces  at  the  same  time ; 
it  would  be  rare  fun  all  the  same  ! 

Suddenly  the  rain  began  to  fall;  great  drops  poured 
from  the  lurid  clouds,  which  had  covered  three-quarters  of 
the  sky. 

'  Oh !  this  is  nothing ! '  cried  Lazare  in  a  state  of  wild 
enthusiasm.  '  Let's  stay  a  little  longer.  Just  look !  not  a 
single  pile  moves  !  '  While  speaking  he  set  his  umbrella  over 
Louise's  head.  She  pressed  to  his  side  with  the  air  of  a 
frightened  turtle-dove.  Pauline,  whom  they  seemed  to  have 
forgotten,  never  ceased  to  watch  them.  She  felt  enraged ;  the 
warmth  of  their  clasp  seemed  to  set  her  cheeks  on  fire.  But 
the  rain  was  now  coming  down  in  a  perfect  torrent,  and 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  107 

Lazare  suddenly  turned  round  and  called  to  her :  '  What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  At  all  events,  open  your 
sunshade ! ' 

She  was  standing  stiffly  erect  beneath  the  downpour, 
which  she  did  not  seem  to  notice.  And  she  simply  answered 
in  a  hoarse  voice  :  '  Leave  me  alone.  I  am  all  right.' 

'  Oh !  Lazare ! '  cried  Louise,  quite  distressed,  '  make  her 
come  here  I  There  is  room  under  the  umbrella  for  all  three 
of  us.' 

But  Pauline,  in  her  angry  obstinacy,  did  not  condescend 
to  notice  the  invitation.  She  was  all  right ;  why  couldn't 
they  let  her  alone  ?  And  when  Lazare,  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  fruitless  entreaties,  finished  by  saying  :  '  It's  folly  !  Let's 
run  to  the  Houtelards'  ! '  she  answered  rudely,  '  Eun  wherever 
you  like.  I  came  here  to  see,  and  I  mean  to  stop.' 

The  fishermen  had  fled.  Pauline  remained  alone  beneath 
the  pouring  rain,  with  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  piles, 
which  were  now  covered  by  the  waves.  The  spectacle 
seemed  to  absorb  all  her  attention,  in  spite  of  the  grey  mist 
which  was  rising  from  the  rain-beaten  sea,  obscuring  every- 
thing. Big  black  marks  appeared  on  her  streaming  dress, 
about  her  shoulders  and  arms,  but  she  would  not  leave  her 
place  till  the  west  wind  had  swept  the  storm-cloud  away. 

They  all  three  returned  home  in  silence.  Not  a  word 
of  what  had  happened  was  mentioned  to  Madame  Chanteau. 
Pauline  hurried  off  to  change  her  clothes,  while  Lazare 
recounted  the  complete  success  of  the  experiment.  In  the 
evening,  as  they  sat  at  table,  Pauline  became  feverish,  but  she 
pretended  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  in  spite  of 
the  evident  difficulty  she  had  in  swallowing  her  food  ;  and  she 
even  ended  by  speaking  very  roughly  to  Louise,  who  evinced 
solicitude  in  her  caressing  way,  and  perpetually  asked  her 
how  she  felt. 

'  The  girl  is  really  growing  quite  unbearable  with  her  bad 
disposition,'  murmured  Madame  Chanteau  behind  Pauline's 
back.  '  We  had  better  give  over  speaking  to  her.' 

About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  Lazare  was  roused  by 
a  hoarse  cough,  which  sounded  so  distressingly  that  he  sat  up 
in  bed  to  listen.  At  first  he  thought  it  came  from  his  mother ; 
then,  as  he  went  on  straining  his  ear,  he  heard  a  noise  as  of 
something  falling,  and  his  floor  shook.  Forthwith  he  jumped 
out  of  bed  and  hastily  put  on  his  clothes.  It  could  only  be 
Pauline,  who  must  have  fallen  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 


io8  THE  JOY  OF  LIF& 

He  broke  several  matches  with  his  trembling  hands,  but,  at 
last,  when  he  had  succeeded  in  lighting  his  candle  and  came 
out  of  his  room,  he  found  the  door  opposite  wide  open,  and 
the  young  girl  lying  on  her  side  and  barring  the  entrance. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  Lazare  cried  in  amazement. 
'  Have  you  fallen  ? ' 

It  had  just  flashed  through  his  mind  that  she  was  prowl- 
ing about  again,  playing  the  spy.  But  she  made  no  reply,  and 
never  even  stirred ;  in  fact,  with  her  closed  eyes,  she  seemed 
to  him  to  be  dead.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  just  as  she 
was  leaving  her  room  to  seek  assistance  a  fainting-fit  had 
thrown  her  on  the  ground. 

'  Pauline,  speak  to  me,  I  beg  you !  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ? ' 

He  had  bent  down  and  was  holding  the  light  to  her  face. 
She  was  extremely  flushed,  and  seemed  a  prey  to  violent  fever. 
Then  all  hesitation  on  his  part  vanished,  and  he  took  her  up 
in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  her  bed  full  of  fraternal 
anxiety.  When  he  had  placed  her  in  bed  again,  he  began  to 
question  her  once  more,  '  For  goodness'  sake,  do  speak  to  me  1 
Have  you  hurt  yourself  ? ' 

She  had  just  opened  her  eyes,  but  she  could  not  yet  speak, 
and  merely  looked  at  him  with  a  fixed  gaze.  Then,  as  he 
still  continued  to  press  her  with  questions,  she  carried  her 
hand  to  her  throat. 

'  It  is  your  throat  that  hurts  you,  is  it  ?  ' 

At  last,  in  a  strange  voice,  that  seemed  to  come  with 
immense  difficulty,  she  gasped : 

'  Don't  make  me  speak,  please.    It  hurts  me  so.' 

As  she  said  this  she  was  seized  with  another  attack  of 
coughing,  the  same  hoarse  guttural  cough  that  he  had  heard 
from  his  bedroom.  Her  face  turned  bluish,  and  her  distress 
became  so  great  that  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  lifted 
her  hands  to  her  poor  trembling  brow,  which  was  quivering 
with  the  hammer-like  throbs  of  a  frightful  headache. 

'  You  caught  that  to-day ! '  he  stammered,  quite  dis- 
tracted. '  It  was  very  foolish  of  you  to  act  as  you  did,  when 
you  were  already  far  from  well ! '  But  he  checked  himself,  as 
he  saw  her  looking  up  at  him  with  a  gaze  of  entreaty. 

'  Just  open  your  mouth  and  let  me  look  at  your  throat.' 

It  was  all  she  could  do  to  open  her  jaws.  Lazare  brought 
the  candle  close  to  her,  and  was  with  difficulty  able  to  espy 
the  back  of  her  throat,  which  was  dry,  and  gleamed  with  a 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  109 

bright  crimson.  It  was  evidently  a  case  of  angina,  and  her 
burning  fever  and  terrible  headache  filled  him  with  alarm  aa 
to  its  precise  nature.  The  poor  girl's  face  wore  such  an 
agonised  expression  of  choking  that  he  was  seized  with  a 
horrible  fear  of  seeing  her  suffocated  before  his  very  eyes. 
She  was  not  able  to  swallow  ;  every  attempt  to  do  so  made 
her  whole  body  quiver.  At  last  a  fresh  attack  of  coughing 
threw  her  into  another  fainting-fit ;  and  thereupon  in  a 
state  of  complete  panic  he  flew  off  to  thump  at  V£ronique's 
door. 

1  Ve"ronique  !  Veronique !     Get  up !    Pauline  is  dying.' 

When  Veronique,  half-dressed  and  scared,  entered  the 
girl's  room,  she  found  Lazare  excitedly  talking  to  himself  in 
the  middle  of  it. 

'  What  a  forsaken  hole  to  be  in  !  One  might  die  here  like 
a  dog  !  There  is  no  help  to  be  had  nearer  than  a  couple  of 
miles !  ' 

He  strode  up  to  Veronique. 

1  Try  and  get  someone  to  go  for  the  Doctor  immediately,' 
he  said. 

The  servant  stepped  up  to  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  sick 
girl.  She  was  quite  alarmed  at  seeing  her  so  flushed,  and  in 
her  increasing  affection  for  Pauline,  whom  she  had  at  first  so 
cordially  detested,  she  felt  a  painful  shock. 

'I'll  go  myself,'  she  said  quietly.  'That  will  be  the 
quickest  way.  Madame  will  be  quite  able  to  light  a  fire  down- 
stairs, if  you  want  one.' 

Then,  scarcely  yet  fully  awake,  she  put  on  her  heavy  boots 
and  wrapped  a  shawl  round  her ;  and,  after  telling  Madame 
Chanteau  what  the  matter  was  as  she  went  downstairs,  she 
set  off,  striding  along  the  muddy  road.  Two  o'clock  rang  out 
from  the  church,  and  the  night  was  so  dark  that  she  stumbled 
every  now  and  then  against  heaps  of  stones. 

'  What  is  it,  then  ? '  asked  Madame  Chanteau,  as  she  came 
upstairs. 

Lazare  scarcely  answered  her.  He  had  just  been  ferreting 
about  in  the  cupboard  for  his  old  medical  treatises,  and  was 
now  bending  down  before  the  chest  of  drawers,  turning  over 
the  pages  of  one  of  his  books  with  trembling  fingers,  while 
trying  to  remember  something  of  what  he  had  formerly  learnt. 
But  he  grew  more  and  more  confused,  and  perpetually  turned 
to  the  index  without  being  able  to  find  what  he  wanted. 

'  It's  only  a  bad  sick  headache,'  said  Madame  Chanteau, 


no  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

who  had  sat  down.  '  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  leave 
her  to  sleep.' 

At  this  Lazare  burst  out  angrily : 

'  A  sick  headache  !  A  sick  headache  indeed !  You  will 
drive  me  quite  mad,  mother,  by  standing  there  so  uncon- 
cernedly. Go  down  stairs  and  get  some  water  to  boil.' 

'  There  is  no  necessity  to  disturb  Louise,  is  there  ? '  she 
asked. 

'  No,  indeed,  not  the  least.  I  don't  require  anybody's 
assistance.  If  I  want  anything  I  will  call  you.' 

When  he  was  alone  again,  he  went  and  took  hold  of 
Pauline's  wrist  to  try  her  pulse.  He  counted  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  pulsations ;  and  he  felt  the  girl's  burning  hand 
cling  closely  and  lingeringly  to  his  own.  Her  heavy  eyelids 
remained  closed,  but  she  was  thanking  him  and  forgiving 
him  with  that  pressure  of  her  hand.  Though  she  was  unable 
to  smile,  she  still  wanted  to  let  him  understand  that  she  had 
heard  and  was  pleased  to  know  that  he  was  there  alone  with 
her,  without  a  thought  for  anybody  else.  Generally,  he  had 
a  horror  of  all  suffering,  and  took  himself  off  at  the  slightest 
appearance  of  indisposition  in  any  of  his  relatives,  for  he  was 
a  shockingly  bad  nurse,  and  was  so  unable  to  control  his 
nerves  that  he  ever  feared  lest  he  should  burst  out  crying. 
And  so  it  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  Pauline  to  see  him  now 
so  anxious  and  devoted.  He  himself  could  not  have  explained 
the  warmth  of  feeling  that  was  upbuoying  him,  or  the 
necessity  he  felt  of  relying  on  himself  alone  to  give  her  relief. 
The  pressure  of  her  little  hand  upset  him,  and  he  tried  to 
cheer  her. 

'It's  nothing  at  all,  my  dear.  I  am  expecting  Cazenove 
directly ;  but  we  needn't  feel  the  least  alarm.' 

She  still  kept  her  eyes  closed  as  she  murmured,  apparently 
still  in  pain  :  '  Oh  !  I'm  not  at  all  frightened.  What  troubles 
me  most  is  to  see  you  so  much  disturbed.' 

Then,  in  a  still  lower  voice,  barely  a  whisper,  she  added  : 
'  Have  you  forgiven  me  yet  ?  I  behaved  very  wickedly  this 
morning.' 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  brow  as  though  she  were 
his  wife.  Then  he  stepped  aside,  for  his  tears  were  blinding 
him.  The  idea  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  as  well 
prepare  a  sleeping-draught  while  waiting  for  the  doctor's 
arrival.  Pauline's  little  medicine-chest  was  in  a  small  cup- 
board in  the  room.  He  felt  a  little  afraid  lest  he  should  make 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  1 1 1 

some  mistake,  and  he  looked  closely  at  the  different  phials ; 
finally  he  poured  a  few  drops  of  morphia  into  a  glass  of 
sugared  water.  When  she  swallowed  a  spoonful  of  it,  the 
pain  in  her  throat  became  so  great  that  he  hesitated  about 
giving  her  a  second.  There  was  nothing  else  he  could  do. 
That  spell  of  inactive  waiting  was  becoming  terribly  painful 
to  him.  When  he  could  no  longer  endure  to  stand  beside  her 
bed  and  see  her  suffering,  he  turned  to  his  books  again, 
hoping  to  find  therein  an  account  of  her  malady  and  its 
remedy.  Could  it  be  a  case  of  diphtheritic  angina  ?  He  had 
certainly  not  seen  any  malignant  growth  on  the  roof  of  her 
mouth,  but  he  plunged  into  the  perusal  of  a  description  of 
that  complaint  and  its  treatment,  losing  himself  in  a  maze 
of  long  sentences  whose  meaning  he  could  not  gather,  and 
striving  to  grope  through  superfluous  details,  Like  a  child 
battling  with  some  lesson  he  cannot  understand.  By-and- 
by  a  sigh  brought  him  hurrying  back  to  the  bedside,  with  his 
head  buzzing  with  scientific  terms,  whose  uncouth  syllables 
only  served  to  increase  his  anxiety. 

'  Well,  how  is  she  getting  on  ? '  inquired  Madame 
Chanteau,  who  had  come  softly  upstairs  again. 

'  Oh  !  she  keeps  just  the  same,'  Lazare  replied. 

Then,  in  a  burst  of  impatience,  he  added : 

1  It  is  terrible,  this  delay  on  the  Doctor's  part !  The  girl 
might  die  twenty  times  over  ! ' 

The  doors  had  been  left  open,  and  Matthew,  who  slept 
under  the  table  in  the  kitchen,  had  also  just  come  up  the 
stairs,  for  it  was  his  habit  to  follow  people  into  every  room  of 
the  house.  His  big  paws  pattered  over  the  floor  like  old 
woollen  slippers.  He  seemed  quite  gay  at  all  this  commotion 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  wanted  to  jump  up  to  Pauline, 
and  even  tried  to  wheel  round  after  his  tail,  like  an  animal 
unconscious  of  his  master's  trouble.  But  Lazare,  irritated 
by  his  inopportune  gaiety,  gave  him  a  kick. 

'  Be  off  with  you,  or  I'll  choke  you  1  Can't  you  under- 
stand, you  idiot  ? ' 

The  dog,  afraid  of  a  beating,  and,  it  may  be,  suddenly 
grasping  the  situation,  went  to  lie  down  under  the  bed.  But 
Lazare's  rough  behaviour  had  aroused  Madame  Chanteau's 
indignation.  Without  waiting  any  longer  she  went  down  to 
the  kitchen  again,  saying  drily  :  '  The  water  will  be  ready 
whenever  you  want  it.' 

As  she  descended  the  stairs  Lazare  heard  her  muttering 


ii2  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

that  it  was  abominable  to  kick  an  animal  like  that,  and  that 
he  would  probably  have  kicked  her  also  if  she  had  remained 
in  the  room.  Every  moment  he  went  to  the  bedside  to  glance 
at  Pauline.  She  now  seemed  to  be  quite  overcome  with  fever, 
utterly  prostrate ;  the  only  sign  of  life  that  came  from  her 
was  the  wheezing  of  her  breath  amidst  the  mournful  silence 
of  the  room,  a  wheezing  that  began  to  sound  like  a  death- 
rattle.  Then  wild  unreasoning  fear  again  seized  upon  Lazare. 
He  felt  quite  certain  that  the  girl  would  soon  choke  if  help 
did  not  arrive.  He  fidgeted  about  the  room  on  tip-toes, 
glancing  perpetually  at  the  timepiece.  It  was  not  three 
o'clock,  and  Veronique  could  hardly  have  got  to  the  Doctor's 
yet.  He  followed  her  in  imagination  through  the  black  night 
all  along  the  road  to  Arromanches.  By  this  time  she  would 
be  passing  the  oak-wood ;  then  she  would  cross  the  little 
bridge,  and  then  she  would  save  five  minutes  by  running 
down  the  hill.  At  last  a  longing  for  tidings  of  some  sort  led 
him  to  throw  open  the  window,  though  it  was  quite  impos- 
sible for  him  to  distinguish  anything  amidst  the  profound 
darkness,  Down  in  the  depths  of  Bonneville  only  a  single 
light  was  gleaming,  the  lantern,  probably,  of  some  fisherman 
preparing  to  put  out  to  sea.  Everything  was  wrapped  in 
mournful  sadness,  far-reaching  abandonment,  in  which  all  life 
appeared  to  die  away.  He  closed  the  window  and  then  opened 
it  again,  only  to  close  it  quickly  once  more.  He  began  to  lose 
all  idea  of  the  flight  of  time,  and  was  startled  when  he  heard 
three  o'clock  strike.  By  this  time  the  Doctor  must  have 
got  his  horse  harnessed,  and  his  gig  would  be  spinning  along 
the  road,  transpiercing  the  darkness  with  the  yellow  glare  of 
its  lamp.  Lazare  grew  so  distracted  with  impatience  as  he 
watched  the  sick  girl's  increasing  suffocation  that  he  started 
up  as  from  a  dream,  when,  at  about  four  o'clock,  he  finally 
heard  some  rapid  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

'  Ah  !  here  you  are  at  last !  '  he  cried. 

Doctor  Cazenove  at  once  ordered  a  second  candle  to  be 
lighted,  in  order  that  he  might  examine  Pauline  properly. 
Lazare  held  one  of  the  candles,  while  Veronique,  whose  hair 
the  wind  had  thrown  into  wild  disorder,  and  who  was  splashed 
with  mud  to  the  waist,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed  with  the 
other.  Madame  Chanteau  looked  on.  The  sick  girl  was  in 
a  state  of  semi-somnolence,  and  could  not  open  her  mouth 
without  a  groan  of  pain.  When  the  Doctor  had  laid  her  back 
in  bed  again,  he,  who  upon  his  first  entrance  had  shown  signs 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  113 

of  great  uneasiness,  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  room  with 
an  expression  of  relief. 

'  That  Ve'ronique  of  yours  put  me  into  a  pretty  fright,' 
said  he.  '  She  told  me  such  a  lot  of  terrible  things  that  I 
thought  the  girl  must  have  got  poisoned,  and  you  see  that  I 
have  come  with  my  pockets  crammed  full  of  drugs.' 

'  It  is  angina,  is  it  not  ?  '  Lazare  asked. 

'  Yes,  simple  angina.  There  is  no  occasion  for  alarm  at 
present.' 

Madame  Chanteau  indulged  in  a  little  gesture  of  triumph, 
as  much  as  to  say  that  she  had  known  that  from  the  first. 

'  "  No  occasion  for  alarm  at  present "  1  '  repeated  Lazare, 
his  fears  rising  again.  '  Are  you  afraid  of  complications  ?  ' 

'  No,'  answered  the  Doctor,  after  some  slight  hesitation ; 
'but  with  these  tiresome  throat  complaints  one  can  never 
feel  quite  sure  of  anything.' 

He  added  that  nothing  more  could  be  done  just  then,  and 
that  he  would  prefer  waiting  till  the  morrow  to  bleed  the 
patient.  But  as  the  young  man  pressed  him  to  attempt  at 
any  rate  some  alleviating  measures,  he  expressed  his  readi- 
ness to  apply  some  sinapisms.  Ve'ronique  brought  up  a  bowl 
of  warm  water,  and  the  Doctor  himself  placed  the  damped 
mustard-leaves  in  position,  slipping  them  along  the  girl's 
legs  from  her  ankles  to  her  knees.  But  they  only  increased 
her  discomfort,  for  the  fever  continued  unabated  and  her  head 
was  still  throbbing  frightfully.  Emollient  gargles  were  also- 
suggested,  and  Madame  Chanteau  prepared  a  decoction  of 
nettle-leaves,  which  had  to  be  laid  aside,  however,  after  a  first 
attempt  to  administer  it,  for  pain  rendered  Pauline  unable 
to  swallow.  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  dawn  was  breaking 
when  the  Doctor  went  away. 

1 1  will  come  back  about  noon,'  he  said  to  Lazare  on  the 
landing.  '  Be  quite  easy.  She  is  all  right,  except  for  the 
pain.' 

'  And  is  the  pain  nothing  ?  '  cried  the  young  man.  '  One 
never  ought  to  suffer  like  that  1 ' 

Cazenove  glanced  at  him,  and  then  raised  his  hands  to 
heaven  at  such  an  extraordinary  pretension. 

When  Lazare  returned  to  Pauline's  room,  he  sent  his 
mother  and  V6ronique  to  get  a  little  sleep.  He  himself 
could  not  have  slept  if  he  had  tried.  He  watched  the  day 
breaking  in  that  disorderly  room  :  the  mournful  dawn  it  was 
that  follows  a  night  of  agony.  With  his  brow  pressed  to 

I 


ii4  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

the  window-pane,  he  was  looking  out  hopelessly  at  the 
gloomy  sky,  when  a  sudden  noise  made  him  turn.  He 
thought  it  was  Pauline  getting  up  in  bed,  but  it  was  Matthew, 
who  had  been  forgotten  by  everybody,  and  who  had  at  last 
crept  from  under  the  bed  to  go  to  the  girl,  whose  hand  hung 
down  over  the  counterpane.  And  the  dog  began  licking 
that  hand  with  such  affectionate  gentleness  that  Lazare, 
quite  touched  at  the  sight,  put  his  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
said: 

'  Ah !  my  poor  fellow,  your  mistress  is  ill,  you  see ;  but 
she'll  soon  be  all  right,  and  then  we'll  all  three  go  on  our 
rambles  once  more.' 

Pauline  had  opened  her  eyes,  and,  though  it  pained  her, 
she  smiled. 

A  period  of  suffering  and  sadness  followed.  Lazare,  acting 
upon  an  impulse  of  wild  affection,  almost  refused  to  let  the 
others  enter  the  sick-room.  He  would  barely  allow  his  mother 
and  Louise  there  in  the  morning  to  inquire  after  Pauline ; 
V6ronique,  in  whom  he  now  recognised  a  genuine  affection  for 
his  cousin,  was  the  only  one  whose  presence  he  tolerated.  At 
the  outset  of  Pauline's  illness  Madame  Ghanteau  tried  to  make 
him  understand  the  impropriety  of  a  young  man  thus  nursing 
a  girl ;  but  he  retorted  by  asking  if  he  were  not  her  husband, 
and  by  saying  that  doctors  attended  women  equally  with  men. 
Between  the  young  people  themselves  there  was  never  the 
slightest  embarrassment.  Suffering  and,  it  might  be,  the 
approach  of  death  obliterated  all  other  considerations.  The 
world  ceased  to  have  any  existence  for  them.  The  chief 
matters  of  interest  were  that  the  draughts  should  be  taken 
at  the  proper  times,  and  such  little  details,  whilst  they  waited 
hour  by  hour  for  the  illness  to  take  a  more  favourable  turn. 
Thus  minor  matters  of  mere  physical  life  suddenly  assumed 
enormous  importance,  as  on  them  depended  joy  or  sorrow. 
The  nights  followed  the  days,  and  Lazare's  existence  seemed 
to  hang  in  the  balance  over  a  deep  abyss  into  whose  black 
darkness  he  ever  feared  to  fall. 

Doctor  Cazenove  came  to  see  Pauline  each  morning,  and 
sometimes  called  again  in  the  evening  after  dinner.  Upon 
his  second  visit  he  had  determined  to  bleed  her  freely.  The 
lever,  however,  though  checked  for  a  time,  reappeared.  Two 
days  passed,  and  the  Doctor  was  evidently  disturbed  in  his 
mind,  unable  to  understand  the  tenacity  with  which  the 
fever  clung  to  his  patient.  As  the  girl  felt  ever-increasing 


THE  JO  y  OF  LIFE  r  1 5 

pain  in  opening  her  mouth,  he  could  not  make  any  proper 
examination  of  the  back  of  her  throat,  which  seemed  to  him 
to  be  much  swollen  and  of  a  livid  hue.  At  last,  as  Pauline 
complained  of  increasing  tightness,  which  made  her  throat 
feel  as  though  it  would  burst,  the  Doctor  one  morning 
remarked  to  Lazare : 

'  I  am  beginning  to  suspect  the  presence  of  a  phlegmon.' 

The  young  man  then  drew  him  into  his  own  room.  The 
previous  evening,  while  turning  over  the  pages  of  an  old 
Manual  of  Pathology,  he  had  read  the  chapter  on  retro- 
pharyngeal  abscesses  which  project  into  the  oesophagus,  and 
are  apt  to  cause  death  by  suffocation  from  compressing  the 
windpipe. 

He  turned  very  pale  as  he  asked  : 

'  Then  she  is  going  to  die  ?  ' 

'  I  trust  not/  the  Doctor  answered.  '  We  must  wait  and 
see  what  happens.' 

But  Cazenove  himself  could  not  conceal  his  uneasiness. 
He  confessed  that  he  was  almost  powerless  in  the  present 
circumstances  of  the  case.  How  could  they  search  for  an 
abscess  at  the  back  of  a  contracted  mouth  ?  And,  besides, 
to  open  the  abscess  too  soon  would  be  attended  with  grave 
danger.  The  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  leave  the 
matter  in  the  hands  of  Nature,  though  the  illness  would 
probably  prove  very  protracted  and  painful. 

'  Well,  I  am  not  the  Divinity,'  he  exclaimed,  when  Lazare 
reproached  him  with  the  uselessness  of  his  science. 

The  affection  which  Doctor  Cazenove  felt  for  Pauline 
showed  itself  in  an  increased  assumption  of  brusque  care- 
lessness. That  tall  old  man,  who  seemed  as  dry  as  a  branch 
of  brier,  was  really  much  affected.  For  more  than  thirty 
years  he  had  knocked  about  the  world,  changing  from  vessel 
to  vessel,  and  working  in  hospitals  all  over  the  colonies.  He 
had  treated  epidemics  on  board  ship,  frightful  diseases  in 
tropical  climes,  elephantiasis  at  Cayenne,  serpent  bites  "in 
India ;  and  he  had  killed  men  of  every  colour  ;  had  studied 
the  effects  of  poison  on  Chinese,  and  risked  the  lives  of 
Negroes  in  delicate  experiments  in  vivisection.  But  now 
this  girl,  with  a  soreness  in  her  throat,  so  wrought  upon  his 
feelings  that  he  could  not  sleep.  His  iron  hands  trembled, 
and  his  callousness  to  death  failed  him,  fearful  as  he  was 
of  a  fatal  issue.  And  so,  wishing  to  conceal  an  emotion 
which  he  considered  unworthy  of  him,  he  made  a  pretence 


n6  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

contempt  for  suffering.    '  People  were  born  to  suffer,'  said  he, 
so  why  make  a  fuss  about  it  ? ' 

Every  morning  Lazare  said  to  him : 

'  Do  try  something  else,  Doctor,  I  beg  you.  It  is  terrible. 
She  cannot  get  a  moment's  rest.  She  has  been  crying  out 
all  the  night.' 

'  Well,  but,  dash  it  all,  it  isn't  my  fault  !  '  the  Doctor 
replied,  working  himself  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  indignation. 
'  I  can't  cut  off  her  neck  to  cure  her.' 

Thereupon  the  young  man  grew  vexed  in  his  turn,  and 
exclaimed : 

'  So  medicine  is  worth  nothing  ? ' 

1  Nothing  at  all  when  the  human  machine  is  out  of  order. 
Quinine  arrests  fever,  and  purgatives  act  on  the  bowels,  and 
bleeding  is  useful  in  apoplexy,  but  it's  a  happy-go-lucky 
business  with  almost  everything  else.  We  must  leave  the 
case  to  Nature.' 

These  remarks  were  wrung  from  him  by  his  anger  at 
being  unable  to  discover  what  course  of  treatment  to  adopt. 
It  was  not  his  ordinary  custom  to  deny  the  power  of  medicine 
so  roundly,  for  he  had  practised  it  too  much  to  be  sceptical  or 
modest  as  to  its  merits.  For  whole  hours  he  would  sit  by 
the  girl's  bedside,  watching  her  and  studying  her,  and  then 
he  would  go  off  without  even  leaving  a  single  instruction 
behind  him,  for  indeed  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  and  was 
compelled  to  leave  the  abscess  developing,  though  he 
recognised  that  a  hair's  breadth  more  or  less  in  its  size  might 
make  all  the  difference  between  life  and  death. 

For  a  whole  week  Lazare  gave  himself  up  to  the  most 
terrible  alarm.  He,  too,  was  in  perpetual  fear  of  seeing 
Nature's  work  suddenly  cease.  At  every  painful,  difficult 
gasp  that  the  girl  gave  he  thought  that  all  was  over.  He 
formed  in  his  mind  a  vivid  picture  of  the  phlegmon,  he 
fancied  he  could  see  it  blocking  Pauline's  windpipe ;  if  it 
were  only  to  swell  a  little  more  her  breath  would  no  longer 
be  able  to  pass.  His  two  years  of  imperfect  medical  study 
served  to  increase  his  alarm.  His  fears  made  him  lose  his 
head,  and  he  broke  out  into  nervous  mutiny,  excited  protest 
against  life.  Why  was  such  frightful  suffering  permitted  ? 
Was  not  all  such  bodily  torture,  all  such  writhing  and  burn- 
ing pain  cruelly  purposeless  when  disease  fell  on  a  poor  weak 
girl?  He  was  for  ever  at  her  bedside,  questioning  her,  even 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  1 1 7 

at  the  risk  of  fatiguing  her.     Was  she  still  in  pain  ?    How 
was  she  feeling  now  ? 

Sometimes  he  would  take  her  hand  and  lay  it  upon  his 
neck.  It  felt  like  an  intolerable  weight  there,  like  a  ball  of 
molten  lead,  which  throbbed  till  he  almost  choked.  Her 
headache  never  left  her.  She  did  not  know  where  or  how  to 
rest  her  head,  and  she  was  tortured  by  sleeplessness.  During 
the  ten  days  that  the  fever  racked  her  she  scarcely  slept  for 
a  couple  of  hours.  One  evening,  to  make  things  still  worse, 
she  experienced  a  frightful  pain  in  her  ears,  and  fainted  from 
sheer  suffering.  But  she  did  not  confess  to  Lazare  all  the 
agony  she  endured.  She  showed  great  courage  and  forti- 
tude, recognising  that  he  was  almost  as  ill  as  she  herself 
was,  his  own  blood  hot  with  fever,  and  his  throat  choked  as 
by  an  abscess.  She  frequently  even  told  fibs,  and  forced  a 
smile  to  her  lips  when  racked  by  the  keenest  suffering.  She 
felt  easier,  she  would  say,  and  she  would  beg  him  to  go  and 
take  a  little  rest.  One  of  the  most  painful  features  of  her 
illness  was  that  she  could  not  even  swallow  her  saliva  with- 
out giving  a  cry,  at  which  Lazare  would  start  up  in  alarm, 
and  begin  to  question  her  afresh.  What  was  the  matter, 
and  where  did  she  feel  pain  ?  Then,  with  her  eyes  closed, 
and  her  face  distorted  by  agony,  she  would  try  to  deceive  him 
and  whisper  that  it  was  a  mere  nothing,  that  something  had 
tickled  her,  and  that  was  all. 

'  Go  to  sleep  and  don't  be  uneasy.  I  am  going  to  sleep 
myself  now.' 

Every  evening  she  went  through  this  pretence  of  going 
to  sleep,  in  order  to  induce  him  to  lie  down,  but  he  persisted 
in  watching  over  her  from  his  arm-chair.  The  nights  were 
so  full  of  anguish  that  they  never  saw  the  evening  fall  with- 
out a  sort  of  superstitious  terror.  Would  they  ever  see  the 
sun  again  ? 

One  night  Lazare  was  leaning  against  the  bed,  holding 
Pauline's  hand  in  his  own,  as  he  often  did,  to  let  her  know 
that  he  was  there  and  was  not  deserting  her.  Doctor  Caze- 
nove  had  gone  off  at  ten  o'clock,  angrily  exclaiming  that  he 
could  answer  for  nothing  more.  The  young  man  derived 
some  consolation  from  the  thought  that  Pauline  herself  was 
not  aware  that  she  was  in  any  imminent  danger.  In  her 
hearing,  only  a  mere  inflammation  of  the  throat  was  spoken 
of,  which,  though  very  painful,  would  pass  away  as  easily  as  a 


n8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

cold  in  the  head.  The  girl  seemed  quite  tranquil  as  to  the 
outcome,  and  bravely  retained  a  cheerful  countenance  in  spite 
of  her  sufferings.  She  smiled  as  she  heard  them  forming 
plans  for  the  time  when  she  would  be  well  again.  That  very 
night  she  had  once  more  listened  to  Lazare  arranging  a  stroll 
along  the  shore  for  the  first  day  that  she  might  be  able  to 
go  out.  Then  they  grew  silent,  and  she  seemed  to  sleep, 
but  after  an  interval  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  she  said 
distinctly : 

'  You  will  have  to  marry  some  other  girl,  I  think,  my 
dear.' 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  feeling  chilled  to  his 
bones. 

'  Why  do  you  say  that  ? '  he  asked. 

She  had  opened  her  eyes,  and  was  looking  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  brave  resignation. 

'  Ah  !  I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  and  I  am  glad 
that  I  do,  for  I  shall  be  able  to  kiss  you  all  before  I  go.' 

Then  Lazare  grew  quite  angry.  It  was  insane  to  think 
such  things.  Before  a  week  was  over  she  would  be  walking 
about.  But  he  dropped  her  hand  and  made  an  excuse  for 
hurrying  to  his  own  room,  for  sobs  were  choking  him ; 
and  he  threw  himself  down  in  the  darkness  upon  his  bed,  on 
which  he  had  not  slept  for  a  long  time  now.  A  frightful 
conviction  suddenly  wrung  his  heart.  Pauline  was  going  to 
die,  perhaps  that  very  night.  And  the  thought  that  she 
knew  it,  and  that  her  silence  on  the  subject  hitherto  had 
been  due  to  courageous  consideration  for  the  feelings  of 
others,  even  in  the  imminent  presence  of  death,  completed 
his  despair.  She  knew  the  truth  ;  she  would  see  her  death 
agony  approach,  and  he  would  be  there  powerless !  Already 
he  saw  them  saying  their  last  good-bye.  The  whole  mournful 
scene  unfolded  itself  before  his  eyes  with  heartrending  detail 
in  the  darkness  of  his  room.  It  was  the  end  of  everything, 
and  he  grasped  his  pillow  in  his  arms  convulsively,  and 
buried  his  head  in  it  to  drown  the  sound  of  his  sobs. 

The  night,  however,  passed  away  without  any  misfortune. 
Then  two  days  went  by  without  any  noticeable  change  in  the 
patient's  condition.  Between  her  and  Lazare  a  new  bond  had 
sprung  up ;  the  thought  of  death  was  with  them.  Pauline 
made  no  further  allusion  to  her  critical  condition ;  she 
even  forced  herself  to  look  cheerful;  and  Lazare,  too,  suc- 
ceeded in  feigning  perfect  tranquillity,  complete  confidence  in 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  119 

seeing  her  leave  her  bed  in  a  few  days'  time ;  yet  both  knew 
that  they  were  ever  bidding  each  other  good-bye  in  the  long, 
loving  glances  which  their  eyes  exchanged.  At  night-time 
especially,  as  Lazare  sat  watching  by  the  girl's  bedside, 
they  recognised  that  each  other's  thoughts  were  of  that 
threatened  eternal  separation  which  kept  them  so  reflective 
and  silent.  Never  before  had  they  experienced  such  melting 
sadness  or  felt  such  a  complete  blending  of  their  beings. 

One  morning,  as  the  sun  was  rising,  Lazare  felt  quite 
astonished  at  the  calmness  with  which  he  was  able  to  con- 
template the  idea  of  death.  He  ransacked  his  memory,  and 
he  could  only  recall  one  occasion  since  the  commencement  of 
Pauline's  illness  when  he  had  felt  a  cold  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  ceasing  to  be.  He  had  trembled,  indeed,  at  the  idea 
of  losing  his  companion  ;  but  that  was  another  kind  of  fear, 
into  which  no  thought  of  the  destruction  of  his  own  person- 
ality entered.  His  heart  bled  within  him,  indeed,  but  it 
seemed  as  though  this  combat  which  he  was  waging  with 
death  put  him  upon  an  equality  with  the  foe,  and  gave  him 
courage  to  look  it  calmly  in  the  face.  Perhaps,  too,  his 
fatigue  and  anxiety  filled  him  with  a  drowsiness  and  weari- 
ness which  numbed  his  personal  fears.  He  closed  his  eyes  so 
that  he  might  not  see  the  rising  sun,  and  tried  to  recall  all 
his  old  thrills  of  horror,  by  telling  himself  that  he,  too, 
would  have  to  die  some  day.  But  no  reply  came ;  all  that 
seemed  to  have  become  quite  indifferent  to  him  and  to  have 
ceased  to  have  any  power  to  affect  him.  Even  his  pessimism 
seemed  to  disappear  in  the  presence  of  that  sick-bed ;  and, 
far  from  plunging  him  into  hatred  and  contempt  of  the  world, 
his  mutinous  outburst  against  suffering  was  but  a  passionate 
longing  for  robust  health,  a  wild  love  of  life.  He  no  longer 
talked  of  blowing  the  earth  into  bits,  as  a  worn-out  and 
uninhabitable  planet.  The  one  image  which  ever  haunted 
his  mind  was  Pauline,  hearty  once  more  and  walking  with 
him  arm  in  arm  beneath  the  bright  sunshine ;  the  only 
craving  he  felt  was  to  lead  her,  gay  and  firm  of  step,  along 
the  paths  through  which  they  had  once  rambled  together. 

Yet  it  was  that  same  day  that  Lazare  felt  sure  of  death's 
approach.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  Pauline  was 
seized  with  attacks  of  nausea,  and  each  brought  on  dangerous 
symptoms  of  suffocation.  Soon  trembling  fits  supervened, 
and  the  poor  girl  shook  so  terribly  that  her  teeth  could  be 
heard  chattering.  Lazare,  in  a  state  of  frightful  alarm, 


i2o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

shouted  from  the  window  that  a  lad  should  be  sent  to 
Arrornanches  at  once,  although  the  doctor  was  expected,  as 
usual,  at  eleven  o'clock.  The  house  had  fallen  into  mournful 
silence,  and  there  had  been  a  sad  void  since  Pauline's  gay 
activity  had  no  longer  animated  it.  Chanteau  spent  his  days 
downstairs  in  moody  silence,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  legs, 
fearing  lest  he  should  be  seized  with  another  attack  of  gout 
while  there  was  no  one  to  nurse  him.  Madame  Chanteau 
usually  forced  Louise  to  go  out,  and  the  pair  of  them,  spend- 
ing most  of  their  time  in  the  open  air,  had  by  this  time 
become  very  intimate  and  familiar.  Only  Ve'ronique's  heavy 
step  came  and  went  everlastingly  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
breaking  the  silence  of  the  landings  and  empty  rooms. 
Lazare  had  gone  three  times  to  lean  over  the  banisters  in 
his  impatience  to  learn  whether  the  servant  had  been  able  to 
get  anybody  to  take  a  message  to  the  doctor.  He  had  just 
returned  to  Pauline's  room  and  was  looking  at  the  girl,  who 
appeared  to  be  a  little  easier,  when  the  door,  which  he  had 
left  ajar,  creaked  slightly. 

'  Well,  Ve'ronique  ? '  he  said. 

But  it  was  not  Ve'ronique  ;  it  was  his  mother.  She  had 
that  day  intended  to  take  Louise  to  see  some  of  her  friends  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Verchemont. 

'  Little  Cuche  has  just  gone,'  she  said.  '  He  can  run 
fast.' 

Then,  after  a  short  interval  of  silence,  she  asked  : 

1  Is  she  no  better  ? ' 

Lazare  made  no  answer,  but  with  a  hopeless  gesture 
pointed  to  Pauline,  who  was  lying  motionless,  as  though  she 
were  quite  dead,  with  her  pale  face  bathed  in  cold  perspira- 
tion. 

'  Ah !  we  won't  go  to  Verchemont,  then,'  his  mother  con- 
tinued. 'It  seems  very  tenacious,  this  mysterious  illness 
which  no  one  seems  to  understand.  The  poor  girl  has  been 
sorely  tried.' 

She  sat  down  and  went  on  chattering  in  the  same  subdued 
monotonous  voice. 

'  We  had  meant  to  start  at  seven  o'clock,  but  it  happened 
that  Louise  overslept  herself.  Everything  seems  to  be  fall- 
ing on  one  this  morning  ;  it  almost  looks  as  though  it  were 
done  on  purpose.  The  grocer  from  Arromanches  has  just 
called  with  his  bill,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  pay  him, 
and  now  the  baker  is  downstairs.  We  spent  forty  francs 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  121 

on  bread  again  last  month.  I  can't  imagine  where  it  all 
goes  to  I ' 

Lazare  was  not  paying  the  least  attention  to  what  she  said ; 
he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  fears  of  a  return  of  the 
shivering-fits.  But  that  monotonous  flood  of  talk  irritated 
him,  and  he  tried  to  get  his  mother  to  leave  the  room. 

'  Will  you  give  Veronique  a  couple  of  towels  and  tell  her 
to  bring  them  up  to  me  ? '  he  said. 

'  Of  course  I  shall  have  to  pay  the  baker,'  his  mother 
resumed,  as  though  she  had  not  heard  him.  '  He  has  spoken 
to  me,  and  so  Veronique  can't  tell  him  that  I  have  gone  out. 
Upon  my  word,  I've  had  quite  enough  of  this  house.  It  is 
becoming  quite  a  burden.  If  Pauline  were  not  unfortu- 
nately so  ill,  she  would  advance  ine  the  ninety  francs  for  her 
board.  It  is  the  20th  to-day,  so  that  there  are  only  ten  days 
to  wait  before  it  will  be  due.  The  poor  child  seems  so  very 
weak ' 

Lazare  suddenly  turned  towards  her. 

'  Well,  what  is  it  you  want  ? '  he  asked. 

'  You  don't  happen  to  know  where  she  keeps  her  money, 
do  you  ? ' 

•No!' 

'  I  dare  say  it's  in  her  chest  of  drawers.  You  might  just 
look.' 

He  refused  with  an  angry  gesture,  and  his  hands 
quivered. 

1 1  beseech  you,  mother,  for  pity's  sake,  do  go  away.' 

These  last  remarks  had  been  hurriedly  exchanged  at  the 
far  end  of  the  room.  There  was  a  moment's  painful  silence, 
which  was  broken  by  a  clear  voice  speaking  from  the  bed  : 

'  Lazare,  just  come  and  take  the  key  from  under  my  pillow, 
and  give  my  aunt  what  she  wants.' 

They  were  both  quite  startled.  Lazare  began  to  protest, 
for  he  was  very  unwilling  to  open  the  drawer ;  but  he  was 
obliged  to  give  way  in  order  that  he  might  not  distress  Pauline. 
When  he  had  given  his  mother  a  hundred-franc  note,  and  had 
slipped  the  key  under  Pauline's  pillow  again,  he  saw  that  the 
girl  was  taken  with  another  trembling-fit,  which  shook  her 
like  a  young  aspen,  and  seemed  likely  to  rend  her  in  twain. 
Two  big  tears  trickled  from  her  closed  eyes  and  rolled  down 
her  cheeks. 

Doctor  Cazenove  did  not  arrive  before  his  usual  time.  He 
had  seen  nothing  of  little  Cuche,  who  was  probably  larking 


122  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

about  amongst  the  hedges.  As  soon  as  he  heard  what  Lazare 
had  to  say  and  cast  a  hasty  glance  at  Pauline,  he  cried 
out :  '  She  is  saved  1 ' 

That  sickness  and  those  alarming  fits  of  trembling  were 
simply  indications  that  the  abscess  had  at  last  broken.  There 
was  no  more  occasion  to  fear  suffocation ;  the  complaint  would 
now  gradually  go  off  of  itself.  Their  joy  was  great ;  Lazare 
accompanied  the  Doctor  out  of  the  room  ;  and  as  Martin,  the 
old  sailor  who  had  taken  service  with  the  Doctor,  drank  a 
bumper  of  wine  in  the  kitchen,  everyone  wanted  to  clink 
glasses  with  him.  Madame  Chanteau  and  Louise  drank  some 
walnut  liqueur. 

'  I  never  felt  really  alarmed,'  said  the  former.  '  I  was  sure 
there  could  be  nothing  serious  the  matter  with  her.' 

'  That  didn't  prevent  the  poor  dear  from  having  an  awful 
time  of  it ! '  exclaimed  Ve"ronique.  '  I'm  more  pleased  than  if 
some  one  had  given  me  a  hundred  sous.' 

Just  at  that  moment  Abbe"  Horteur  came  in.  He  had 
called  to  make  inquiries,  and  he  drank  a  glass  of  wine  by  way 
of  doing  like  the  rest.  Every  day  he  had  come  in  this  way 
like  a  kindly  neighbour  ;  for,  on  his  first  visit,  Lazare  had 
told  him  that  he  could  not  see  the  patient  for  fear  of  alarming 
her,  whereupon  the  priest  had  quietly  replied  that  he  under- 
stood it,  and  had  contented  himself  with  mentioning  the  poor 
girl's  name  when  saying  his  masses.  Chanteau,  as  he  clinked 
glasses  with  him,  complimented  him  upon  his  spirit  of 
tolerance. 

'  Well,  you  see,  she  is  coming  round  nicely,  without  the 
help  of  an  Or  emus  \ ' 

'Everyone  is  saved  after  his  own  fashion,'  the  priest 
declared  sententiously,  as  he  drained  his  glass. 

When  the  Doctor  had  left,  Louise  wanted  to  go  upstairs  to 
kiss  Pauline.  The  poor  girl  was  still  suffering  much  pain, 
but  this  was  not  now  regarded  as  of  much  account.  Lazare 
gaily  bade  her  take  courage,  and,  quite  dropping  all  pretence, 
began  even  to  exaggerate  the  danger  through  which  she  had 
passed,  telling  her  that  three  times  already  he  had  believed 
that  she  was  lying  dead  in  his  arms.  Pauline,  however, 
manifested  no  exuberant  delight  at  being  saved  ;  but  she  was 
conscious  of  the  joy  of  life,  after  having  found  the  courage  to 
look  calmly  upon  death's  approach.  An  expression  of  loving 
emotion  passed  over  her  worn,  sad  face  as  she  pressed  her 
cousin's  hand  and  murmured  to  him,  smiling  : 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  123 

1  Ah !  my  dear,  you  can't  escape  after  all,  you  see.  I  shall 
be  your  wife  yet.' 

Her  convalescence  was  heralded  in  by  long  slumbers.  She 
slept  for  whole  days,  quite  calmly,  breathing  easily  and  regu- 
larly, steeped  in  a  strength-restoring  torpor.  Minouche,  who 
had  been  banished  from  the  room  during  her  period  of  pros- 
tration, took  advantage  of  this  quietness  to  slip  in  again.  She 
jumped  lightly  upon  the  bed,  and  immediately  lay  down 
there,  nestling  beside  her  mistress.  Indeed,  she  spent  whole 
days  on  it,  revelling  in  the  warmth  of  the  blankets,  or  making 
an  interminable  toilet,  wearing  away  her  fur  by  constant  lick- 
ing, but  performing  each  operation  with  such  supple  lightness 
that  Pauline  could  not  even  tell  she  was  moving.  At  the 
same  time  Matthew,  who,  equally  with  Minouche,  was  now 
granted  free  access  to  the  room,  snored  like  a  human  being 
on  the  carpet  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 

One  of  Pauline's  first  fancies  was  to  have  her  young  friends 
from  the  village  brought  up  to  her  room  on  the  following 
Saturday.  They  had  just  begun  to  allow  her  to  eat  boiled 
eggs  after  the  very  spare  diet  to  which  she  had  been  subjected 
for  three  weeks.  Though  she  was  still  very  weak,  she 
was  able  to  sit  up  to  receive  the  children.  Lazare  had  to 
go  to  the  drawer  again  to  find  her  some  five-franc  pieces. 
After  she  had  questioned  her  pensioners  and  had  insisted  on 
paying  off  what  she  called  her  arrears,  she  became  so 
thoroughly  exhausted  that  she  lay  back  in  a  fainting  condition. 
But  she  manifested  great  interest  in  the  piles,  groynes,  and 
stockades,  and  every  day  inquired  if  they  still  remained  firmly 
in  position.  Some  of  the  timbers  had  already  weakened,  and 
her  cousin  told  a  falsehood  when  he  asserted  that  only  the 
nailing  of  a  plank  or  two  had  ceased  to  hold.  One  morning, 
when  she  was  alone,  she  slipped  out  of  bed,  wishing  to  see  the 
high  tide  dash  against  the  stockades  in  the  distance ;  and 
this  time  again  her  budding  strength  failed  her,  and  she 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  if  Ve"ronique  had  not  come 
into  the  room  in  time  to  catch  her  in  her  arms. 

'  Ah  !  you  naughty  girl !  I  shall  have  to  fasten  you  down 
in  bed  if  you  don't  behave  more  sensibly  ! '  said  Lazare  with 
a  smile. 

He  still  persisted  in  watching  over  her,  but  he  was  com- 
pletely worn  out  with  fatigue,  and  would  drop  asleep  in  his 
arm-chair.  At  first  he  had  felt  a  lively  joy  in  seeing  her 
drink  her  broth.  The  young  girl's  restored  health  became  a 


124  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

source  of  exquisite  pleasure  to  him  ;  it  was  a  renewal  of  life 
of  which  he  himself  partook.  But  afterwards,  when  he  had 
grown  accustomed  to  it,  and  all  the  girl's  suffering  had 
passed  away,  he  ceased  to  rejoice  as  over  some  unhoped-for 
blessing.  All  that  was  left  to  him  was  a  sort  of  hebetation, 
a  slackening  of  the  nerves  now  that  the  struggle  was  over, 
a  confused  notion  that  the  hollowness  and  mockery  of  every- 
thing was  becoming  manifest  again. 

One  night  when  he  had  been  sleeping  soundly  Pauline 
heard  him  awake  with  a  sigh  of  agony.  By  the  feeble  glimmer 
of  the  night-light  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  terror-stricken 
face,  his  eyes  staring  wildly  with  horror,  and  his  hands 
clasped  together  in  an  attitude  of  entreaty.  He  stammered  out 
some  incoherent  words  :  '  0  God  !  0  God  ! ' 

She  leant  towards  him  with  hasty  anxiety,  and  called: 
1  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Lazare  ?  Are  you  in  pain  ? ' 

The  sound  of  her  voice  made  him  start.  He  had  been 
seen,  then.  He  sat  silent  and  vexed,  and  could  only  contrive 
to  tell  a  clumsy  fib. 

'  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  It  was  you  yourself 
who  were  crying  out  just  now.' 

But  in  reality  the  horror  of  death  had  just  come  back  to 
him  in  his  sleep — a  horror  without  cause,  born  of  blank 
nothingness — a  horror  whose  icy  breath  had  awakened  him 
with  a  great  shudder.  0  God!  he  thought,  so  he  would 
have  to  die  some  day.  And  that  thought  took  possession 
of  him,  and  choked  him ;  while  Pauline,  who  had  laid  her 
head  back  again  on  her  pillow,  watched  him  with  an  air  of 
motherly  compassion. 


EVERY  evening,  in  the  dining-room,  when  Verpnique  had 
cleared  the  table,  Madame  Chanteau  and  Louise  chatted 
together ;  while  Chanteau,  buried  in  his  newspaper,  gave  brief 
replies  to  his  wife's  few  questions.  During  the  fortnight 
when  he  had  thought  Pauline  in  danger,  Lazare  had  never 
joined  the  family  at  dinner;  but  he  now  dined  downstairs 
again,  though,  directly  the  meal  was  over,  he  returned  to  his 
post  art  the  invalid's  bedside.  He  scarcely  closed  the  door 
behind  him  before  Madame  Chanteau  began  with  her  old 
complaints, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  125 

At  first  she  affected  loving  anxiety. 

1  Poor  boy  ! '  she  said,  '  he  is  quite  wearing  himself  out. 
It  is  really  foolish  of  him  to  go  on  endangering  his  health  in 
this  way.  He  has  scarcely  had  any  sleep  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  He  is  paler  than  ever  to-day.' 

Then  she  would  have  a  word  or  two  of  pity  for  Pauline. 
The  poor  dear  seemed  to  suffer  so  much  that  it  was  impossible 
to  stay  in  her  room  without  a  heartache.  But  she  soon 
began  to  harp  upon  the  manner  in  which  that  illness  upset 
the  house.  Everything  remained  in  a  state  of  confusion ; 
their  meals  were  always  cold,  and  there  was  no  relying  upon 
anything.  Then  she  broke  off  suddenly,  and,  turning  to  her 
husband,  asked  him : 

'  Has  V^ronique  found  time  to  give  you  your  marshmallow 
water  ? ' 

1  Yes,  yes,'  he  replied  from  behind  his  newspaper. 

Then  she  lowered  her  voice  and  addressed  herself  to 
Louise. 

'  It  is  very  peculiar,  but  that  poor  Pauline  seems  to  have 
brought  us  nothing  but  misfortune.  And  yet  some  people 
persist  in  looking  upon  her  as  our  good  angel !  I  know  the 
stories  that  are  floating  about.  At  Caen,  they  say — don't  they, 
Louise  ? — that  we  have  grown  quite  rich  through  her.  Rich, 
indeed  !  I  should  just  think  so  1  You  may  speak  to  me  quite 
frankly,  for  I  am  above  taking  any  notice  of  their  slanderous 
gossip.' 

'  Well,  indeed,  they  do  talk  about  you,  just  as  they  talk 
about  everybody  else,'  the  girl  murmured.  '  Only  last  month 
I  was  obliged  to  snub  a  notary's  wife,  who  dared  to  speak  on 
the  subject,  without  knowing  anything  at  all  about  it.  You 
can't  prevent  people  talking,  you  know.' 

After  that,  Madame  Chanteau  made  no  attempt  to  veil  her 
real  feelings.  There  was  no  doubt,  she  said,  that  they  were 
suffering  from  their  own  generosity.  Had  they  wanted  any- 
one's assistance  before  Pauline  came  ?  And  where  would  she 
have  been  now,  in  what  Paris  slum,  if  they  had  not  consented 
to  take  her  into  their  house  ?  It  was  all  very  fine  for  people 
to  talk  about  her  money,  but  that  money  had  never  been  any- 
thing but  a  source  of  trouble  to  them ;  indeed,  it  seemed  to 
have  brought  ruin  with  it.  The  facts  spoke  clearly  enough 
for  themselves.  Her  son  would  never  have  launched  out  into 
those  idiotic  speculations  in  seaweed,  nor  have  wasted  his 
time  in  trying  to  prevent  the  sea  from  sweeping  Bonneville 


iz6  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

away,  if  that  unlucky  Pauline  had  not  turned  his  head.  If 
she  had  lost  her  money,  well,  it  was  her  own  fault.  The  poor 
young  fellow  had  wrecked  both  his  health  and  his  future. 
Madame  Chanteau  could  hardly  find  words  strong  enough  with 
which  to  inveigh  against  those  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs  of  which  her  secretaire  still  reeked.  It  was,  indeed,  all 
the  large  sums  which  had  been  swallowed  up,  and  the  small 
amounts  which  were  still  being  daily  abstracted  and  thus 
increasing  the  deficit,  that  embittered  her,  as  though  therein 
lay  the  ferment  in  which  her  honesty  had  rotted  away.  By 
this  time  putrefaction  was  complete,  and  she  hated  Pauline 
for  all  the  money  she  owed  her. 

'What  is  the  good  of  talking  to  such  an  obstinate 
creature  ? '  she  resumed  bitterly.  '  She  is  horribly  miserly  at 
heart,  and,  at  the  same  time,  she  is  recklessness  itself.  She 
will  toss  twelve  thousand  francs  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  for 
the  Bonneville  fishermen,  who  only  laugh  at  us,  and  feed  all 
the  filthy  brats  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  while  I  perfectly 
tremble,  upon  my  word  of  honour  I  do,  if  I  have  to  ask  her 
for  only  forty  sous.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  With 
all  her  pretence  of  charity  to  others,  she  has  got  a  heart  of 
stone.' 

During  all  the  talk  of  this  kind  Veronique  was  often  in  and 
put  of  the  room,  clearing  away  the  dinner  things  or  bringing 
in  the  tea,  and  she  loitered  to  listen  to  what  was  being  said, 
and  sometimes  even  ventured  on  a  remark. 

'  Mademoiselle  Pauline  got  a  heart  of  stone  !  Oh,  Madame  ! 
how  can  you  say  so  ?  ' 

Madame  Chanteau  reduced  her  to  silence  by  a  stern  look. 
Then,  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table,  she  entered  into  a 
series  of  complicated  calculations,  talking  as  to  herself. 

'I've  nothing  more  to  do  with  her  money  now,  thank 
goodness,  but  I  should  like  to  know  how  much  of  it  there's 
left.  Not  more  than  seventy  thousand  francs,  I'll  be  bound. 
Just  let  us  reckon  it  up  a  little.  Three  thousand  have  gone 
already  in  that  experimental  stockade ;  then  there  are,  at 
least,  two  hundred  francs  going  every  month  in  charity,  and 
ninety  francs  for  her  board  here.  All  that  mounts  up  quickly. 
Will  you  take  a  bet,  Louise,  that  she'll  ruin  herself  ?  You 
will  see  her  reduced  to  a  pallet  one  of  these  days.  And  when 
she  has  quite  ruined  herself,  who  will  take  her  in  ? — how  will 
she  manage  to  live  ? ' 

At  this  Ve"ronique  could  not  restrain  herself,  but  broke 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  127 

out :  '  I'm  sure  Madame  could  never  think  of  turning  her  out 
of  doors  ? ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  are  you  speaking  about  ?  ' 
her  mistress  demanded  angrily.  '  There's  no  question  of 
anyone  being  turned  out  of  doors.  I  never  turned  anybody 
out  of  doors.  What  I  said  was  that  nothing  can  be  more 
foolish,  when  one  has  had  a  fortune  of  one's  own,  to  go 
frittering  it  all  away  and  becoming  dependent  upon  other 
people.  Go  off  to  your  kitchen.' 

The  servant  went  off,  grinding  out  muttered  protests  from 
between  her  teeth.  Then  there  came  an  interval  of  silence, 
while  Louise  poured  out  the  tea.  The  only  sound  in  the  room 
was  the  slight  rustling  of  the  newspaper,  which  Chanteau 
read  from  end  to  end,  not  missing  even  the  advertisements. 
Now  and  then  he  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  the  young  girl. 

'  You  might  give  me  another  piece  of  sugar,  please.  Have 
you  had  a  letter  from  your  father  yet  ? ' 

'  No,  indeed,'  she  answered  with  a  smile.  '  But  if  I  am  in 
the  way  I  can  leave  at  any  time,  you  know.  You  have  quite 
sufficient  trouble  with  Pauline's  illness.  I  would  rather  have 
gone  away  before,  but  you  insisted  upon  my  staying.' 

'  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,'  he  interrupted.  '  It  is  only 
too  kind  of  you  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  society  till  poor 
Pauline  can  get  downstairs  again.' 

'  I  can  go  to  Arromanches  till  my  father  comes,  if  I  am  in 
the  way,'  she  continued,  as  though  she  had  not  heard  him, 
merely  by  way  of  teasing.  '  My  aunt  Le"onie  has  taken  a 
chalet  there,  and  there  are  plenty  of  people  there,  and  a  good 
beach  where  one  can  bathe  at  any  rate.  But  she  is  very 
wearisome  is  my  aunt  Leonie.' 

Chanteau  laughed  at  the  girl's  playful,  fondling  ways. 
Though  he  dare  not  confess  it  to  his  wife,  he  was  entirely  on 
the  side  of  Pauline,  who  nursed  him  so  kindly  and  carefully. 
He  buried  himself  in  his  newspaper  again ;  while  Madame 
Chanteau,  who  had  been  immersed  in  deep  reflections, 
suddenly  started  up,  as  though  awaking  from  a  dream. 

'  There's  one  thing  which  I  can't  forgive  her.  She  has 
completely  taken  possession  of  my  son.  He  scarcely  stops  at 
the  table  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I  can  hardly  get  a 
single  word  with  him.' 

'  That  will  soon  be  over,'  said  Louise.  '  She  must  have 
someone  with  her.' 

Madame  Chanteau  shook  her  head  and  tightened  her  lips 


i28  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

but  the  words  which  she  seemed  trying  to  keep  back  broke 
out,  apparently  in  spite  of  herself. 

'  It's  all  very  well  to  say  that,  but  it's  a  little  peculiar  for 
a  young  man  to  be  always  shut  up  with  a  sick  girl.  There  ! 
I've  said  what  I  mean  and  haven't  kept  it  back,  and  if  it 
doesn't  please  others  I  can't  help  it.' 

Then,  noticing  Louise's  embarrassed  look,  she  added  : 

'  It  isn't  healthy  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  a  sick- 
room. She  may  easily  infect  him  with  her  sore  throat. 
Those  girls  who  seem  so  vigorous  have  sometimes  all  sorts 
of  impurities  in  their  blood.  Well,  I  don't  know  why  I 
shouldn't  say  it,  but  I  don't  think  she  is  quite  sound  and 
healthy.' 

Louise  then  feebly  defended  her  friend.  She  had  always 
found  her  so  nice  and  kind;  that  was  the  only  argument 
which  she  contrived  to  bring  forward  in  reply  to  the 
accusation  of  a  stony  heart  and  ill-health.  An  instinctive 
desire  for  tranquil  peace  and  quietness  induced  her  to  try  to 
mitigate  Madame  Chanteau's  rough  ill-feeling,  although  every 
day  she  listened  to  her  trying  to  excel  her  bitterness  of  the 
day  before.  While  making  some  kind  of  protest  against  the 
harshness  of  Madame  Chanteau's  language,  Louise  indeed 
flushed  with  secret  pleasure  at  finding  herself  preferred  to 
Pauline,  promoted  to  the  position  of  favourite.  She  was  like 
Minouche  in  this  respect,  content  to  be  caressing  so  long  as 
her  own  enjoyment  was  not  interfered  with. 

Every  evening  the  conversation,  after  flowing  along  the 
same  channels,  ended  invariably  in  the  same  way,  Madame 
Chanteau  slowly  saying : 

'  No,  Louisette,  the  girl  that  my  son  ought  to  marry ' 

And  from  that  starting-point  she  would  launch  out  into  a 
disquisition  upon  the  qualities  of  an  ideal  daughter-in-law, 
while  her  eyes  all  the  time  remained  fixed  upon  Louise,  trying 
to  make  her  understand  more  than  she  was  willing  to 
actually  say.  It  was  the  girl's  own  self  that  was  gradually 
being  described.  A  young  person  who  had  been  well  brought 
up  and  educated,  who  had  acquired  a  knowledge  of  society, 
and  who  was  fit  to  play  the  part  of  a  hostess,  who  was  grace- 
ful rather  than  beautiful,  and,  what  was  especially  desirable, 
who  was  truly  feminine  and  lady-like ;  for  a  boy-like  girl, 
a  hoyden  who  made  frankness  a  pretence  for  being  rough 
and  rude,  was,  said  she,  her  detestation.  Then  there  was 
the  question  of  money — which  was  really  the  only  one  that 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  129 

influenced  her — and  this  she  made  a  pretence  of  dismissing 
with  a  word,  saying  that,  though  she  made  no  account  of  a 
dowry,  her  son  had  great  schemes  and  aims  for  the  future, 
and  could  not,  of  course,  afford  to  contract  a  marriage  that 
would  be  likely  to  lead  to  ruin. 

'  I  may  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  if  Pauline  had  come  here 
penniless,  with  nothing  but  the  chemise  she  wore,  the  mar- 
riage would  probably  have  taken  place  years  ago.  But  you 
can't  be  surprised  at  my  hesitation  and  distrust,  when  I  see 
money  slipping  through  her  hands  like  water.  The  sixty 
thousand  francs  she  still  has  left  won't  trouble  her  much 
longer,  I  fancy.  No  1  Lazare  deserves  a  better  fate  than  that, 
and  I  will  never  consent  to  his  marrying  a  mad  creature  who 
would  stint  the  house  in  food  so  that  she  might  ruin  herself 
with  idiotic  follies.' 

1  Ah,  no  !  money's  nothing,'  said  Louise,  lowering  her  eyes  ; 
'  still  one  needs  some.' 

Although  Louise's  dowry  was  not  directly  referred  to,  her 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  seemed  to  be  lying  there  upon 
the  table,  glistening  beneath  the  glow  of  the  hanging  lamp. 
It  was  because  Madame  Chanteau  felt  and  saw  them  there  that 
she  became  thus  excited,  and  swept  aside  Pauline's  paltry 
sixty  thousand  in  her  dream  of  winning  for  her  son  that 
other  girl  whose  big  fortune  was  still  intact.  She  had  noticed 
how  Lazare  had  been  drawn  towards  Louise  before  all  this 
tiresome  business,  which  now  kept  him  in  seclusion  upstairs. 
If  the  girl  was  equally  attracted  towards  him,  why  shouldn't 
they  make  a  match  of  it?  Her  husband  would  give  his 
consent,  and  that  the  more  readily  when  he  saw  it  was  a  case 
of  mutual  affection.  Thus  she  did  all  she  could  to  fan 
Louise's  love  into  life,  spending  the  rest  of  the  evening  in 
making  such  remarks  as  she  thought  likely  to  excite  the  girl's 
passion. 

'  My  Lazare  is  so  good !  No  one  knows  half  how  good  he 
is.  You  yourself,  Louisette,  have  no  notion  how  affectionate 
is  his  nature.  Nobody  will  pity  the  girl  who  gets  him  for  a 
husband.  She  will  be  quite  certain  of  being  passionately 
loved.  And  he  is  such  a  handsome  vigorous  fellow,  too  I  His 
skin  is  as  white  as  a  chicken's.  My  grandfather,  the  Chevalier 
de  la  Vigniere,  had  such  a  white  skin  that  he  used  to  wear  his 
clothes  cut  quite  low  like  a  woman's  when  he  went  to  masked 
balls.' 

Louise  blushed  and  smiled,  and  was  much  amused  with 


1 3o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Madame  Chanteau's  details.  The  mother's  advocacy  of  her 
Bon,  and  the  confidences  which  she  poured  out  to  Louise  with 
the  object  of  inclining  her  to  a  union  with  Lazare,  might  have 
kept  her  there  all  night  if  Chanteau  had  not  begun  to  feel  very 
drowsy  over  his  newspaper. 

« Isn't  it  about  time  for  us  all  to  go  to  bed  ? '  he  asked 
with  a  yawn. 

Then,  as  though  he  had  been  quite  unconscious  for 
some  time  of  what  had  been  going  on,  and  was  taking  up 
the  thread  of  Madame  Chanteau's  earlier  conversation,  he 
added : 

'  You  are  quite  mistaken.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  shall 
be  very  glad  when  she  is  able  to  come  downstairs  again  and 
eat  her  soup  beside  me.' 

'  We  shall  all  be  glad,'  cried  his  wife,  with  considerable 
bitterness.  '  We  may  speak  and  say  what  we  think,  without 
ceasing  to  be  fond  of  those  of  whom  we  talk.' 

'  The  poor  little  dearl  '  exclaimed  Louise,  in  her  turn ;  '  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  bear  half  the  pain  for  her,  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible.  She  is  so  amiable  ! ' 

Ve>onique,  who  was  just  bringing  them  their  candles,  once 
more  put  in  her  word. 

1  You  are  quite  right  to  be  her  friend,  Mademoiselle  Louise, 
for  no  one,  unless  she  had  a  paving-stone  for  a  heart,  could 
ever  wish  her  unkindly.' 

'  That  will  do,1  said  Madame  Chanteau.  '  We  didn't  ask 
for  your  opinion.  It  would  be  very  much  better  if  you  cleaned 
the  candlesticks.  This  one  here  is  quite  filthy.' 

They  all  rose  from  their  seats.  Chanteau  lost  no  time  in 
escaping  from  his  wife's  snappishness,  and  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room  on  the  ground  floor.  But  when  the  two  women 
reached  the  landing  upstairs,  where  their  rooms  adjoined  each 
other,  they  did  not  at  once  go  to  bed.  Madame  Chanteau 
almost  always  took  Louise  into  her  own  room  for  a  little  time 
and  there  resumed  her  remarks  about  Lazare,  showing  the 
girl  one  and  another  portrait  of  him,  and  even  exhibiting 
little  memorials  and  souvenirs,  such  as  a  tooth  which  had 
been  extracted  when  he  was  quite  young,  or  a  lock  of  the 
pale  hair  of  his  infancy,  or  even  some  of  his  old  clothes ; 
for  instance,  the  bow  he  had  worn  at  his  first  communion,  or 
his  first  pair  of  trousers. 

'  See ! '  she  said,  one  night,  '  these  are  some  locks  of  his 
hair.  I  have  a  number,  cut  at  all  stages  of  his  life.' 


THE  JOY  O*  LIFE  131 

Thus,  when  Louise  got  to  bed  she  could  not  sleep  for 
thinking  of  the  young  man  whom  his  mother  was  trying  to 
force  on  her. 

Up  above,  Pauline's  convalescence  was  progressing  gradu- 
ally. Although  the  patient  was  now  out  of  danger,  she  still 
remained  very  feeble,  worn  out  and  exhausted  by  feverish 
attacks  which  astonished  the  doctor.  As  Lazare  said, 
doctors  were  always  being  astonished.  He  himself  was 
growing  more  irritable  every  hour.  The  sudden  lassitude 
which  had  fallen  upon  him  when  the  crisis  was  over  seemed 
to  be  turning  into  a  kind  of  uneasy  restlessness.  Now  that  he 
was  no  longer  wrestling  against  death,  he  began  to  feel  dis- 
tressed by  the  close  atmosphere  of  the  apartment  and  the 
spoonfuls  of  physic  which  had  to  be  administered  at  regular 
hours,  and  all  the  other  little  duties  of  a  sick-room,  which 
he  had  so  enthusiastically  taken  upon  himself  at  first. 
Pauline  was  able  to  do  without  him  now,  and  he  sank 
back  into  the  boredom  of  an  aimless  empty  existence — a 
boredom  which  kept  him  fidgeting  from  chair  to  chair,  with 
his  hands  hanging  listlessly  by  his  side,  or  wandering  about 
the  room,  staring  hopelessly  at  the  walls,  or  deep  in  gloomy 
abstraction  in  front  of  the  window,  looking  out,  but  seeing 
nothing. 

'Lazare,'  Pauline  said  to  him  one  day,  '  you  must  go  out. 
Veronique  will  be  quite  able  to  do  everything.' 

But  he  hotly  refused.  '  Couldn't  she  bear  his  presence 
any  longer,1  he  asked,  '  that  she  wanted  to  send  him  away  ? 
It  would  be  very  nice  of  him,  wouldn't  it,  if  he  were  to  desert 
her  like  that  before  she  was  quite  strong  again  ?  ' 

But  he  grew  calm  as  she  gently  explained  to  him : 

'  You  wouldn't  be  deserting  me  by  just  going  out  to  get  a 
little  fresh  air.  Go  out  in  the  afternoon.  We  should  be  in 
a  pretty  way  if  you  were  to  fall  ill  too.' 

Then,  however,  she  unfortunately  added  : 

'  I  have  seen  you  yawning  all  the  morning.' 

1  You've  seen  me  yawning  ! '  he  cried.  '  Say  at  once  that 
I  have  no  heart !  This  is  a  nice  way  to  thank  me ! ' 

The  next  morning  Pauline  was  more  diplomatic.  She 
pretended  that  she  was  very  anxious  that  the  construction  of 
the  stockades  should  be  proceeded  with ;  the  high  winter 
tides  were  coming  on,  and  the  experimental  works  would  be 
swept  away  if  the  system  of  defence  was  not  completed. 
But  Lazare  no  longer  glowed  with  his  early  enthusiasm ; 

K2 


i32  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  resistance  of  the  timbers  as  he 
had  arranged  them,  and  fresh  study  would  be  necessary.  Then, 
too,  the  estimate  would  be  exceeded,  and  the  authorities  had 
not  yet  voted  a  single  sou.  For  two  days  Pauline  tried  to  fan 
his  inventive  amour-propre  into  fresh  life.  She  asked  him  if 
he  was  going  to  let  himself  be  beaten  by  the  sea,  with  all  the 
neighbourhood  looking  on  and  smiling  ;  as  for  the  money,  it 
would  certainly  be  paid  back,  if  she  advanced  it,  as  they  had 
settled  she  should.  By  degrees  Lazare  then  seemed  to  work 
himself  up  to  his  old  pitch  of  enthusiasm.  He  made  fresh 
designs  and  again  called  in  the  carpenter  from  Arromanches, 
and  had  long  consultations  with  him  in  his  own  room,  the 
door  of  which  he  left  open  so  that  he  might  be  ready  to  go 
to  Pauline  at  the  first  summons. 

'  Now,'  said  he  one  morning  as  he  kissed  the  girl,  <  the 
sea  won't  be  able  to  break  anything.  I  am  quite  sure  we 
shall  be  successful.  As  soon  as  you  are  able  to  walk,  you 
must  go  and  see  how  the  works  are  getting  on.' 

Louise  had  just  come  up  into  the  room  to  inquire  after 
Pauline's  health,  and  as  she,  too,  kissed  her,  the  patient 
whispered  to  her : 

'  Take  him  away  with  you.' 

Lazare  at  first  refused  to  go.  He  was  expecting  the 
doctor,  he  said.  But  Louise  laughed  and  told  him  that  she 
was  sure  he  was  much  too  gallant  to  let  her  go  alone  to  the 
Gonins,  where  she  was  going  to  choose  some  lobsters  to 
send  to  Caen.  Besides,  he  could  give  a  look  at  the  works  on 
the  way. 

'  Yes,  do  go,'  said  Pauline.  '  It  will  please  me  if  you  do. 
Take  his  arm,  Louise.  There,  now,  don't  let  him  get  away 
again.' 

She  grew  quite  merry  as  the  two  others  jokingly  pushed 
each  other  about ;  but  when  they  had  left  the  room  she 
became  very  thoughtful,  and  leaned  over  the  edge  of  her  bed 
to  listen  to  their  laughter  and  footsteps  dying  away  down 
the  stairs. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  V^ronique  came  in  with  the 
doctor.  By-and-by  she  installed  herself  at  Pauline's  bedside, 
but  without  abandoning  her  saucepans,  for  she  kept  per- 
petually running  to  and  fro  between  the  kitchen  and  the 
bedroom,  spending  an  hour  or  so  there,  as  she  was  able,  in 
the  intervals  of  her  work.  She  did  not,  however,  take 
over  all  the  duties  of  nurse  at  once.  Lazare  came  back  in 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  133 

the  evening  after  going  out  with  Louise,  hut  he  set  off  again 
the  next  morning ;  and  each  succeeding  day,  carried  away 
as  he  was,  absorbed  more  and  more  in  outdoor  life,  his  visits 
to  Pauline  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  till  he  soon  stayed  only 
long  enough  to  inquire  after  her.  Pauline,  too,  always  told 
him  to  run  off,  if  he  merely  spoke  of  sitting  down ;  and  when 
he  and  Louise  returned  together  she  made  them  tell  her  all 
about  their  walk,  and  grew  quite  bright  amidst  their  anima- 
tion and  the  touch  of  the  fresh  breezes  which  still  seemed  to 
cling  to  their  hair.  They  seemed  such  good  friends,  and 
nothing  else,  that  all  her  old  suspicions  of  them  had  vanished. 
And  when  she  saw  Veronique  coming  towards  her,  with  her 
draught  in  her  hand,  she  cried  out  to  her  gaily  : 

'  Oh  !  be  off !    You  worry  me ! ' 

Sometimes  she  called  Lazare  to  her  to  tell  him  to  look 
after  Louise,  as  though  she  had  been  a  child. 

'  See  that  she  doesn't  get  bored.  She  wants  amusing. 
Take  her  for  a  good  long  walk ;  I  shall  get  on  very  well 
without  you  for  the  rest  of  the  day.' 

When  she  was  left  alone,  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  following 
them  from  a  distance.  She  spent  her  time  in  reading, 
waiting  till  she  should  be  strong  again,  for  she  was  still  so 
weak  that  it  quite  exhausted  her  to  sit  up  for  two  or  three 
hours  in  an  easy-chair.  She  would  often  let  her  book  slip 
on  to  her  lap,  while  her  thoughts  dreamily  wandered  off  after 
her  cousin  and  her  friend.  She  wondered  whether  they 
were  walking  along  the  beach,  and  had  got  to  the  caves, 
where  it  was  so  pleasant  on  the  sands  amidst  the  fresh 
breezes  and  rising  tide.  In  those  long  reveries  she  fancied 
that  the  feeling  of  sorrow  which  depressed  her  came  merely 
from  the  fact  that  she  was  unable  to  be  with  them.  She 
soon  grew  weary  of  reading.  The  novels  which  lay  about  the 
house,  love-stories  abounding  in  romantic  falsity  and  treason, 
had  always  offended  her  sense  of  honour,  for  she  felt  how 
impossible  it  would  be,  after  once  giving  her  heart,  to  with- 
draw it  again.  Was  it  true,  then,  that  people's  hearts 
could  lie  so,  and  that,  after  having  once  loved,  they  could 
ever  cease  to  love  ?  She  threw  the  books  from  her  in 
disgust ;  and  with  her  wandering  gaze  saw,  in  imagination, 
her  cousin  bringing  her  friend  home,  he  supporting  her 
weary  steps,  as  they  came  along  side  by  side,  whispering 
and  laughing. 

1  Here  is  your  draught,  Mademoiselle,'   suddenly    said 


i34  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Ve"ronique,  whose  deep  voice,  coming  from  behind,  aroused 
Pauline  from  her  reverie  with  a  start. 

By  the  end  of  the  first  week  Lazare  never  came  to  her 
room  without  first  knocking.  One  morning  as  he  opened 
the  door  he  caught  sight  of  her,  combing  her  hair  as  she  sat 
up  in  bed,  with  her  arms  bare. 

1  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ! '  he  cried,  stepping  back. 

1  What's  the  matter  ?  '  said  she.  '  Are  you  frightened  of 
me?'  Then  he  took  courage,  but  he  was  afraid  lest  he 
should  embarrass  her,  and  turned  his  head  aside  until  she 
had  finished  fastening  up  her  hair. 

A  fortnight  before,  when  he  had  thought  that  she  was 
dying,  he  had  lifted  her  in  his  arms  as  though  she  had  been 
a  child,  without  even  noticing  her  nakedness.  But  now  the 
very  disorder  of  the  room  disquieted  him.  And  the  girl 
herself,  catching  his  feeling  of  uneasiness,  soon  refrained 
from  asking  of  him  any  of  the  little  services  that  he  had 
lately  been  accustomed  to  render  her. 

'  Shut  the  door,  Ve"ronique  ! '  she  cried  one  morning,  as 
she  heard  the  young  man's  step  on  the  landing.  '  Put  all 
those  things  out  of  sight  and  give  me  that  fichu.' 

She  was  gradually  growing  stronger,  and  her  great 
pleasure,  when  she  was  able  to  stand  up  and  lean  against  the 
window,  was  to  watch  the  progress  that  was  being  made  with 
the  defensive  works.  She  could  distinctly  hear  the  blows  of 
the  hammers,  and  see  the  gang  of  seven  or  eight  men,  who 
bustled  about  like  big  ants  over  the  yellowish  shingle  on 
the  beach.  Between  the  tides  they  worked  away  energeti- 
cally, but  they  were  obliged  to  retire  before  the  rising  water. 
It  was  with  special  interest,  too,  that  Pauline's  eyes  followed 
Lazare's  white  jacket  and  Louise's  pink  gown,  both  of  which 
glittered  conspicuously  in  the  sun.  She  followed  them  con- 
stantly with  her  gaze,  and  could  have  told  their  every  action, 
almost  their  every  gesture,  throughout  the  day.  Now  that 
the  operations  were  being  pushed  so  vigorously  forward  they 
could  no  longer  wander  off  together,  or  ramble  to  the  caves 
inside  the  cliffs  ;  and  thus  Pauline  constantly  had  them 
within  half  a  mile  of  her,  always  plainly  visible  beneath  the 
wide  expanse  of  sky,  though  their  stature  was  reduced  by 
distance  to  that  of  dolls.  Quite  unknown  to  herself,  this 
jealous  pleasure  of  accompanying  them  in  fancy  did  much 
to  cheer  her  convalescence  and  recruit  her  strength. 

'  It  amuses  you,  eh,  to  watch  the  workmen  ?  '  Ve"ronique 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  135 

used  to  repeat  every  day  as  she  dusted  the  room.  '  Well,  it's 
much  better  for  you  than  reading.  Whenever  I  try  to  read 
I  get  a  headache.  And,  besides,  when  one  wants  to  get  back 
strength,  one  must  go  and  open  one's  mouth  in  the  sun- 
shine like  the  turkeys  do,  and  drink  in  great  mouthfuls  of  it.' 

Ve"ronique  was  not  naturally  of  a  talkative  nature ;  she 
was  even  considered  a  little  morose  and  taciturn ;  but  with 
Pauline  she  chatted  freely  from  a  friendly  impulse,  believing 
that  she  did  the  girl  good. 

'  It's  a  funny  piece  of  business  all  the  same  1  But  it  seems 
to  please  Monsieur  Lazare.  Though,  indeed,  he  does  not 
appear  to  be  quite  so  full  of  it  just  now  as  he  was.  But  he 
is  so  proud  and  obstinate  that  he  will  go  on  persisting  in  a 
thing,  even  if  he  is  really  sick  to  death  of  it.  And  if  he  just 
leaves  those  drunken  fellows  for  a  minute,  they  drive  the 
nails  in  all  crooked.' 

After  she  had  swept  the  floor  under  the  bed  she  added  : 

1  And  as  for  the  duchess ' 

Pauline,  who  was  scarcely  listening  to  the  woman,  caught 
this  word  with  surprise. 

'  The  duchess  1     Whom  are  you  talking  of  ? ' 

'  Mademoiselle  Louise,  of  course  1  Wouldn't  anyone  say 
that  she  had  sprung  straight  from  Jupiter's  thigh  ?  If  you 
were  to  go  and  look  in  her  room  and  see  all  her  little  pots 

and  pomades  and  scents Why,  as  soon  as  ever  you  open 

the  door,  it  all  catches  you  at  the  throat,  the  place  smells  so  ! 
But  she  can't  match  you  in  good  looks,  for  all  that  1 ' 

'  Oh,  nonsense  !  I'm  a  mere  country  girl,"  Pauline  said 
with  a  smile  ;  '  Louise  is  very  graceful  and  refined.' 

'  Well,  she  may  be  all  that ;  but  she  hasn't  got  a  pretty 
face,  all  the  same.  I  have  had  a  good  look  at  her  when  she 
has  been  washing  herself ;  and  I  know  that,  if  I  were  a  man, 
I  shouldn't  be  long  in  making  up  my  mind  between  you.' 

Carried  off  by  her  feeling  of  enthusiastic  conviction,  she 
came  and  leaned  against  the  window,  close  to  Pauline. 

'  Just  glance  at  her  there  on  the  beach !  Doesn't  she 
look  a  mere  shrimp  ?  She  is  certainly  a  long  way  off,  and 
one  can't  expect  her  to  appear  as  big  as  a  church,  but  she 
ought  to  show  a  figure  of  some  sort  I  Ah !  there's  Monsieur 
Lazare  lifting  her  up,  so  that  she  mayn't  wet  her  pretty  little 
shoes.  She  can't  weigh  very  much  in  his  arms,  that's 
certain !  But  there  are  some  men  who  seem  to  prefer 
bones  1 ' 


136  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

V6ronique  checked  herself  suddenly,  as  she  felt  Pauline 
quivering  by  her  side.  She  was  ever  harping  on  this  subject, 
as  if  she  itched  to  talk  of  it.  All  that  she  heard  and  all  that 
she  saw — the  conversations  in  the  evening  when  Pauline  waa 
calumniated,  the  furtive  smiles  of  Lazare  and  Louise,  and  the 
utter  ingratitude  of  the  whole  family,  which  was  rapidly  grow- 
ing into  treason — stuck  in  her  throat  and  made  her  choke. 
If  she  had  gone  up  to  the  sick  girl's  room  at  the  times  when 
her  honest  heart  glowed  with  a  sense  of  some  fresh  injustice, 
she  could  not  have  restrained  herself  from  revealing  every- 
thing to  Pauline,  but  her  fear  of  making  her  ill  kept  her 
stamping  about  her  kitchen,  knocking  her  pots  and  pans 
about,  and  swearing  that  she  could  not  go  on  much  longer  in 
that  way,  but  would  soon  be  driven  into  telling  them  all  very 
roundly  what  she  thought  about  them.  However,  when  she 
got  upstairs  into  Pauline's  room,  and  a  word  that  might  vex 
or  disturb  the  girl  escaped  her  lips,  she  tried  to  recall  it  or 
explain  it  away  with  a  touching  awkwardness. 

'  But,  thank  goodness,  Monsieur  Lazare  isn't  the  kind  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  bag  of  bones.  He  has  been  in  Paris,  and 
knows  what's  what.  He  has  too  much  good  taste.  Look  !  he 
has  set  her  on  the  ground  again  just  as  if  he  were  throwing  a 
match  away !  ' 

Then  Veionique,  in  fear  of  letting  her  tongue  slip  again, 
began  to  flourish  her  feather  brush  once  more ;  while  Pauline, 
buried  in  deep  thought,  watched  till  evening  Louise's  pink 
gown  and  Lazare's  white  jacket  both  gleaming  in  the  distance 
amidst  the  dark  forms  of  the  workmen.  When  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  fairly  well  again,  Chanteau  was  seized  with 
another  violent  attack  of  the  gout;  and  this  induced  the 
young  girl  to  come  downstairs  at  once.  The  first  time  that 
she  left  her  room  it  was  to  go  and  sit  by  the  sick  man's  bed- 
side. As  Madame  Chanteau  said,  very  bitterly,  the  house  was 
becoming  quite  a  hospital.  For  some  time  her  husband  had 
not  left  his  chair.  After  repeated  seizures  his  whole  body 
was  now  attacked  by  his  foe  ;  the  disease  mounted  from  his 
feet  to  his  knees,  and  then  to  his  elbows  and  hands.  The 
little  white  pearl  on  his  ear  had  fallen  away,  but  others,  of 
larger  size,  had  appeared.  All  his  joints  became  swollen,  and 
spots  of  chalky  tophus  showed  whitely,  like  lobster's  eyes, 
through  his  skin  in  all  parts.  It  was  from  chronic  gout  that 
he  now  suffered,  chronic  and  incurable ;  the  kind  of  gout 
which  stiffens  and  deforms  the  body. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  137 

'  Good  heavens  1  what  agony  I'm  in  1 '  Chanteau  kept 
repeating.  '  My  left  knee  is  as  stiff  as  a  log  ;  I  can't  move 
either  my  foot  or  my  knee ;  and  my  elbow  burns  as  though  it 
were  on  fire.  Just  look  at  it ! ' 

Pauline  looked,  and  observed  an  inflamed  swelling  on  his 
teft  elbow.  He  complained  bitterly  of  the  agony  he  was 
suffering  there;  indeed,  it  very  soon  became  unendurable. 
He  kept  his  arm  stiffly  stretched,  as  he  sighed  and  groaned, 
with  his  eyes  constantly  fixed  upon  his  hand,  which  was  a 
pitiable  sight,  with  all  the  finger-j  obits  knotted  and  swollen, 
and  the  thumb  warped  as  though  it  had  been  beaten  with  a 
hammer. 

'  I  cannot  keep  like  this.  You  must  come  and  help  me  to 
move.  I  thought  just  now  that  I  had  got  myself  fairly  com- 
fortable, but  I  am  as  bad  again  as  ever  I  was.  It  is  just 
as  though  my  bones  were  being  scraped  with  a  saw.  Try  to 
raise  me  a  little.' 

Twenty  times  in  an  hour  did  he  have  to  be  helped  to 
change  his  position.  He  was  in  a  continual  state  of  anxious 
restlessness,  always  hoping  to  find  relief  in  some  new  change. 
But  Pauline  still  felt  too  weak  to  venture  to  move  him  without 
assistance. 

'  Ve"ronique,'  she  would  say  softly,  c  take  hold  of  him  very 
gently  and  help  me  to  move  him.' 

'  No,  no  !  not  Ve"ronique ! '  Chanteau  would  cry  out,  '  she 
shakes  me  so  ! ' 

Then  Pauline  was  obliged  to  make  the  effort  herself,  and 
her  shoulders  gave  way  under  the  strain.  And,  however 
gently  she  turned  him  round,  he  groaned  and  screamed  so 
terribly  that  Veronique  rushed  hastily  out  of  the  room.  She 
said  that  one  needed  to  be  a  saint,  like  Mademoiselle  Pauline, 
to  be  able  to  do  such  work,  for  the  good  God  Himself  would 
run  away  if  He  were  to  hear  her  master  bellowing. 

The  paroxysms,  however,  became  less  acute,  though  they 
did  not  cease,  but  recurred  frequently  both  day  and  night, 
keeping  the  sick  man  in  a  state  of  perpetual  exasperation.  It 
was  no  longer  merely  in  his  feet  that  he  felt  as  though  sharp 
teeth  were  gnawing  at  him,  his  whole  body  seemed  bruised, 
as  though  it  were  being  crushed  beneath  a  millstone.  It  was 
impossible  to  afford  him  any  relief ;  all  that  Pauline  could  do 
was  to  remain  by  his  side  and  yield  submissively  to  his 
caprices,  ever  changing  his  position  for  him,  though  without 
succeeding  in  giving  him  any  lasting  ease.  The  worst  of 


138  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

the  matter  was  that  pain  made  him  unjust  and  violent,  and 
he  spoke  to  her  harshly,  as  though  she  were  a  very  clumsy 
servant. 

'  Oh,  stop !  stop !  you  are  as  awkward  as  Ve"romque ! 
Can't  you  manage  it  without  digging  your  fingers  into  my 
body  like  that  ?  Your  hands  are  as  clumsy  as  a  gendarme's. 
Go  away  and  leave  me  alone.  I  don't  want  you  to  touch  me 
any  more.' 

But  Pauline,  without  a  word  of  self-defence,  showing  a  sub- 
missive resignation  nothing  could  ruffle,  resumed  her  efforts 
with  increased  gentleness.  When  she  imagined  he  was  getting 
irritated  with  her  she  would  conceal  herself  for  a  moment 
behind  the  curtains,  hoping  that  his  anger  would  cool  when 
he  no  longer  saw  her.  And  often  she  would  give  way  to 
silent  tears  in  her  hiding-place,  not  for  the  poor  man's  harsh- 
ness towards  her,  but  for  the  frightful  martyrdom  which  made 
him  so  hasty  and  violent.  She  listened  to  him  as  he  talked 
to  himself  amidst  his  sighing  and  groaning. 

1  She  has  gone  away,  the  heartless  girl  I  Ah  !  if  I  were  to 
die,  there  would  only  be  Minouche  left  to  close  my  eyes.  It  is 
abominable  to  desert  a  human  being  in  this  way!  I'll  be 
bound  she's  gone  off  to  the  kitchen  to  have  some  broth ! ' 

Then,  after  a  little  wrestling  and  struggling,  he  groaned 
more  loudly,  and  ended  by  calling :  '  Pauline,  are  you  there  ? 
Come  and  raise  me  a  little.  I  can't  get  easy  as  I  am.  Shall 
we  try  how  the  left  side  will  do — shall  we  ?  ' 

Every  now  and  then  he  would  be  suddenly  seized  with 
deep  regret,  and  would  beg  the  girl's  pardon  for  having  treated 
her  unkindly.  Sometimes  he  would  tell  her  to  fetch  Matthew, 
for  the  sake  of  having  another  companion,  fancying  that  the 
dog's  presence  would  somehow  or  other  alleviate  his  pain. 
But  it  was  in  Minouche  rather  than  in  Matthew  that  he  found 
a  faithful  associate,  for  the  cat  revelled  in  the  close,  warm 
atmosphere  of  sick  rooms,  and  spent  her  days  lying  on  a  couch 
near  the  bed.  However,  when  the  patient  gave  a  more  than 
usually  loud  cry  she  seemed  surprised,  and  turned  upon  him, 
sitting  on  her  tail,  and  staring  at  him  with  her  big  round 
eyes,  in  which  glistened  the  indignant  astonishment  of  a 
sober  philosophic  nature  whose  tranquillity  had  been  deeply 
disturbed.  What  could  possess  him  to  make  all  that  disagree- 
able and  useless  noise  ? 

Every  time  that  Pauline  went  out  of  the  room  with  Doctor 
Cazenove  she  preferred  the  same  request. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  139 

'  Can't  you  inject  a  little  morphia  ?  It  makes  my  heart 
bleed  to  hear  him.' 

But  the  doctor  refused.  It  would  do  no  good ;  the  par- 
oxysms would  return  again  with  increased  violence.  Since 
the  salicylic  treatment  appeared  only  to  have  aggravated  the 
disease,  he  preferred  not  to  try  any  other  drug.  He  spoke, 
however,  of  seeing  what  a  milk  diet  might  do  as  soon  as  the 
violence  of  the  attack  was  over.  Until  then  the  patient  was 
to  keep  to  the  most  sparing  diet  and  diuretic  drinks,  and 
nothing  else. 

'  The  truth  is,'  said  Cazenove,  '  that  your  uncle  is  a 
gourmand  who  is  now  paying  dearly  for  all  his  fine  dishes. 
He  has  been  eating  game ;  I  know  he  has,  for  I  saw  the 
feathers  in  the  yard.  It  will  be  much  the  worse  for  him  in 
the  end.  I  have  warned  him  over  and  over  again  that  the 
reason  of  his  suffering  is  that,  instead  of  denying  himself 
such  things,  he  prefers  to  yield  to  his  appetite  and  take  the 
consequences.  But  you  yourself  will  act  still  more  foolishly, 
my  dear,  if  you  over-exert  yourself  and  make  yourself  ill 
again.  Do  be  careful !  You  will,  won't  you  ?  Your  health 
still  requires  looking  after.' 

But  she  looked  after  it  very  little  ;  she  devoted  herself  to 
her  uncle  entirely,  and  all  notion  of  time  and  even  of  life  itself 
seemed  to  depart  from  her  during  the  long  days  and  nights 
that  she  passed  by  his  bedside,  with  her  ears  buzzing  with  the 
groans  and  cries  which  ever  filled  the  room.  Her  devotion 
and  self-sacrifice  were  so  complete  that  she  actually  forgot  all 
about  Louise  and  Lazare.  She  just  exchanged  a  few  words 
with  them  now  and  then,  when  she  ran  across  them  as  she 
passed  through  the  dining-room.  By  this  time  the  work  on 
the  shore  was  finished,  and  heavy  rains  had  kept  the 
young  people  in  the  house  for  a  week  past ;  and,  when  the 
idea  that  they  were  together  once  suddenly  occurred  to 
Pauline,  she  felt  quite  happy  to  know  that  they  were  near 
her. 

Never  before  had  Madame  Chanteau  appeared  so  busy. 
She  was  taking  advantage,  she  said,  of  the  confusion  into 
which  her  husband's  illness  threw  the  household  to  go 
through  her  papers,  make  up  her  accounts,  and  clear  off 
arrears  of  correspondence.  So  in  the  afternoons  she  shut 
herself  up  in  her  bedroom,  leaving  Louise  to  her  own 
resources  ;  and  the  girl  immediately  went  upstairs  to  Lazare, 
for  she  detested  being  alone.  They  thus  got  into  the  way  of 


T4o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

being  together,  remaining  undisturbed  till  dinner-time  in  the 
big  room  on  the  second  floor,  that  room  which  had  so  long 
served  Pauline  both  for  study  and  amusement.  The  young 
man's  little  iron  bedstead  was  still  there,  hidden  away  behind 
the  screen.  The  piano  was  covered  with  dust,  and  the  table 
buried  beneath  an  accumulation  of  papers,  books,  and  pam- 
phlets. In  the  middle  of  it,  between  two  piles  of  dry  sea- 
weed, was  a  little  model  of  a  stockade,  cut  out  of  deal  with 
a  knife,  and  recalling  the  grandfather's  masterpiece,  the 
bridge  which,  in  its  glass  case,  adorned  the  mantelpiece  in 
the  dining-room. 

For  some  time  Lazare  had  been  falling  into  a  nervous 
condition.  His  workmen  had  irritated  him,  and  he  had  just 
rid  himself  of  the  works  on  the  shore  as  of  a  burden  beyond 
his  strength,  without  tasting  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his 
work  accomplished.  Other  plans  now  filled  his  head — vague 
projects  for  the  future,  appointments  at  Caen,  operations 
which  would  bring  him  great  fame.  Yet  he  never  took  any 
definite  active  steps,  but  relapsed  into  a  state  of  idleness 
which  seemed  to  render  him  weaker,  less  courageous,  every 
hour.  The  great  shock  which  he  had  received  from  Pauline's 
illness  added  to  mental  disquietude  a  perpetual  craving  for 
the  open  air,  a  peculiar  physical  longing,  as  though  he 
felt  some  imperious  necessity  of  recouping  himself  after  his 
struggle  against  pain  and  sorrow.  The  presence  of  Louise 
still  further  excited  his  feverishness.  She  did  not  seem  able 
to  speak  to  him  without  leaning  upon  his  shoulder;  she 
smiled  close  to  his  face,  and  her  cat-like  graces,  the  warmth 
that  came  from  her  person,  and  all  the  disturbing  freedom 
of  her  manner  quite  turned  his  head.  He  was  seized  with  a 
feeling  against  which  his  conscience  struggled.  With  a  friend 
of  his  childhood,  in  his  mother's  house,  any  idea  of  the  sort, 
he  told  himself,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment ;  and 
his  sense  of  honour  made  his  arms  tingle  with  pain  whenever 
he  caught  hold  of  Louise  as  they  played  together,  and  a  thrill 
sent  his  blood  surging  through  his  veins.  It  was  no  thought 
of  Pauline  that  kept  him  back.  She  would  never  have  known 
anything  about  the  matter.  Amidst  all  his  strange  fancies 
he  began  to  indulge  in  ferocious,  pessimistic  sallies  respecting 
women  and  love.  Every  evil  originated  in  women,  who  were, 
said  he,  foolish  and  fickle,  and  perpetuated  grief  by  desire ; 
while  love  was  nothing  but  delusion,  the  onslaught  of  future 
generations  which  wished  to  come  into  existence.  He  thus 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  141 

retailed  all  Schopenhauer'a  views,  over  which  the  blushing 
girl  grew  very  merry. 

By  degrees  Lazare  became  more  deeply  enamoured  of  her, 
genuine  passion  arose  from  amidst  his  disdainful  prejudices, 
and  he  threw  himself  into  that  fresh  love  with  all  his  early 
enthusiasm,  which  was  still  straining  after  a  happiness  that 
ever  seemed  to  evade  him. 

On  Louise's  side  there  had  long  been  nothing  but  every- 
day coquetry.  She  delighted  in  receiving  attentions  and 
compliments,  and  flirting  with  pleasant  men ;  and  when  one 
of  them  ceased  to  appear  interested  in  her  she  seemed  quite 
melancholy  and  out  of  her  element.  If  Lazare  neglected  her 
for  a  moment  or  two,  to  write  a  letter,  or  to  plunge  into  one 
of  his  sudden  apparently  groundless  fits  of  melancholy,  she 
felt  so  unhappy  that  she  began  to  tease  and  provoke  him, 
preferring  danger  to  neglect.  Later  on,  however,  she  ex- 
perienced some  alarm  as  she  felt  the  young  man's  burning 
breath  fanning  her  neck  like  a  flame.  But  though  aware  of 
the  danger,  she  seemed  unable  to  change  her  ways. 

On  the  day  when  Chanteau's  attack  reached  its  worst 
point  the  whole  house  shook  with  his  bellowing :  prolonged 
heart-rending  plaints,  like  the  death-cries  of  a  beast  in  the 
hands  of  the  slaughterer.  After  breakfast,  of  which  she  had 
hastily  partaken  in  a  state  of  nervous  irritati^*  Madame 
Chanteau  rushed  from  the  room,  saying  : 

'  I  can't  endure  it  any  longer ;  I  shall  '  -gin  to  scream 
myself  if  I  stop  here.  If  anyone  want0  0,  I  shall  be  in  my 
own  room  writing.  And  you,  Lazare,  uoKe  Louise  upstairs  with 
you  and  try  to  amuse  her,  for  the  poor  girl  is  not  having  a 
very  gay  time  here.' 

They  heard  her  bang  her  door  on  the  first  floor,  while  her 
son  and  the  girl  climbed  to  the  one  above. 

Pauline  had  gone  back  to  her  uncle.  She,  in  her  pity  for  so 
much  suffering,  was  the  only  one  who  retained  her  calmness. 
If  she  could  do  nothing  but  just  sit  with  him,  she  wished,  at 
any  rate,  to  afford  the  poor  man  whatever  comfort  could  be 
derived  from  not  being  left  to  suffer  in  solitude.  She  fancied 
that  he  bore  up  more  bravely  against  his  pain  when  she 
looked  at  him,  even  if  she  did  not  speak  a  single  word.  For 
hours  she  would  sit  in  this  way  by  his  bedside,  and  the  gaze 
of  her  big  compassionate  eyes  indeed  soothed  him  somewhat. 
But  that  day,  with  his  head  hanging  over  the  bolster,  his 
arm  stretched  out,  and  his  elbow  racked  with  agony,  he  did 


i42  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

not  even  recognise  her,  and  screamed  yet  more  loudly  when- 
ever she  approached  him. 

About  four  o'clock  Pauline,  in  a  state  of  desperation, 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  speak  to  Ve'ronique,  leaving  the  door 
open  behind  her,  as  she  intended  returning  immediately. 

'  Something  must  really  be  done,"  she  said.  '  I  should 
like  to  try  some  cold  compresses.  The  doctor  says  they  are 
dangerous,  though  they  are  successful  sometimes.  Can  you 
give  me  some  linen  ? ' 

Ve"ronique  was  in  a  frightfully  bad  temper. 

'  Linen  ?  I've  just  been  upstairs  to  get  some  dusters,  and 
a  nice  reception  I  got !  I  had  no  business  to  come  disturbing 
them  up  there !  Oh,  it's  a  nice  state  of  things ! ' 

'But  you  might  ask  Lazare  for  some,'  Pauline  continued, 
without  yet  understanding  Ve"ronique's  remarks. 

Then  the  servant,  carried  away  by  her  anger,  set  her  arms 
a-kimbo,  and,  without  taking  time  to  think  of  what  she  was 
saying,  burst  out :  '  Yes,  I  should  think  so,  indeed !  They 
are  much  too  busy  gallivanting  up  there ! ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  the  girl  stammered,  growing  very 
pale. 

Ve'ronique,  alarmed  at  what  she  had  said,  attempted  to 
recall  those  words  which  she  had  so  long  been  keeping  to 
herself.  She  tried  to  think  of  some  explanation,  some  fib  to 
tell  Pauline,  but  she  could  hit  upon  nothing  that  seemed  of 
any  service.  By  way  of  precaution  she  had  grasped  the  girl's 
wrists,  but  Pauline  freed  herself  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and 
bounded  wildly  up  the  staircase,  so  choked,  so  convulsed  by 
anger  that  Ve'ronique  dared  not  follow  her,  trembling  as  she 
did  with  fear  at  the  sight  of  that  pallid  face,  which  she  could 
scarcely  recognise.  The  house  seemed  to  be  asleep ;  the 
upper  floors  were  wrapped  in  silence,  and  nothing  but 
Chanteau's  yell  came  from  below  to  disturb  the  perfect 
quietude.  The  girl  sprang  with  a  bound  to  the  landing 
of  the  first  floor,  where  she  jostled  against  her  aunt,  who 
stood  there,  like  a  sentinel,  barring  any  further  advance. 
She  had  probably  been  keeping  guard  in  this  way  for  some 
little  time. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? '  she  asked. 

Pauline,  still  choking  with  emotion,  and  exasperated  at 
this  hindrance  to  her  progress,  could  not  at  first  answer. 

1  Let  me  pass  1  '  she  at  last  managed  to  stammer,  making 
an  angry  gesture,  before  which  Madame  Chanteau  quailed. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  143 

Then,  with  another  bound  she  rushed  up  to  the  second  floor, 
while  her  aunt,  rooted  to  the  spot,  threw  up  her  arms,  but 
spoke  no  word.  Pauline  was  possessed  by  one  of  those  stormy 
fits  of  rebellion  which  broke  out  amidst  all  the  gentle  gaiety 
of  her  nature,  and  which,  even  when  she  was  a  mere  child, 
had  afterwards  left  her  in  a  prostrate  fainting  condition. 
For  some  years  past  she  believed  that  she  had  cured  herself 
of  them.  But  an  impulse  of  jealousy  had  just  thrilled  her  so 
violently  that  she  could  not  have  restrained  herself  without 
shattering  herself  entirely. 

When  she  reached  Lazare's  door  on  the  top  floor,  she 
threw  herself  against  it.  The  key  was  bent  by  her  impetuous 
onset,  and  the  door  clattered  back  against  the  wall.  And  the 
sight  she  then  beheld  brought  her  indignation  to  a  climax. 
Lazare  was  clasping  Louise  in  his  arms  against  the  ward- 
robe and  raining  kisses  on  her  chin  and  neck,  she  passive, 
half-fainting,  unable  to  resist  his  embrace.  They  had  begun, 
no  doubt,  in  mere  sport,  but  the  sport  seemed  likely  to  have  a 
disastrous  ending.  At  Pauline's  appearance  there  was  a 
moment  of  stupefaction.  They  all  three  looked  at  each  other. 
Then,  at  last,  Pauline  burst  out : 

1  Oh  !  you  hussy  !  you  hussy  ! ' 

It  was  the  girl's  treason  that  angered  her  more  than  any- 
thing. With  a  scornful  gesture  she  pushed  Lazare  aside,  as 
though  he  were  a  child  of  whose  pitiful  weakness  she  was 
well  aware.  But  this  girl,  her  own  familiar  friend,  had 
stolen  her  husband  from  her  while  she  was  busy  nursing  a 
sick  man  down  below  1  She  caught  her  by  the  shoulders, 
shook  her,  and  was  scarcely  able  to  keep  from  striking  her. 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  this  ?  Tell  me  !  You  have  been 
behaving  infamously,  shamelessly  I  Do  you  hear  me  ?  ' 

Then  Louise,  still  in  a  state  of  stupor,  and  with  her  eyes 
wandering  vacantly,  stammered : 

'  He  held  me ;  I  could  not  get  away.' 

'  He !  Why,  he  would  have  burst  into  tears  if  you  had 
simply  pushed  him  with  your  little  finger  1 ' 

The  sight  of  the  room  itself  increased  her  anger — that 
room  where  she  and  Lazare  had  loved  each  other,  where  she, 
too,  had  felt  her  blood  pulse  more  quickly  through  her  veins 
at  the  warm  touch  of  the  young  man's  breath.  What  should 
she  do  to  this  girl  to  satisfy  her  vengeance  ? 

Lazare,  dazed,  overcome  with  embarrassment,  had  just 
resolved  to  attempt  some  interference,  when  Pauline  dashed 


144  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Louise  from  her  so  violently  that  the  girl's  shoulders  struck 
the  wardrobe. 

•  Ah  1  I'm  afraid  of  myself.    Be  off ! ' 

And  that  was  all  she  could  now  find  to  say.  She  chased 
the  other  through  the  room,  drove  her  out  upon  the  landing 
and  down  the  staircase,  crying  after  her  perpetually  : 

'  Be  off !  be  off  I     Get  your  things  together  and  be  off ! ' 

Madame  Chanteau  was  still  standing  on  the  landing  of 
the  first  floor.  The  rapidity  of  the  scene  had  given  her  no 
opportunity  to  interfere.  But  she  now  recovered  her  power  of 
speech  and  signed  to  Lazare  to  shut  himself  in  his  own  room, 
while  she  tried  to  soothe  Pauline,  pretending  at  first  to  be 
very  much  surprised  at  what  had  happened.  Meantime 
Pauline,  having  driven  Louise  into  her  bedroom,  still  kept 
on  repeating : 

'  Be  off  I  be  off ! ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  her  aunt  asked  her.  '  Why  is 
she  to  be  off?  Are  you  losing  your  head  ? ' 

Then  the  young  girl  stammered  out  the  whole  story. 
She  was  overcome  with  disgust.  To  her  frank,  honourable 
nature  such  conduct  appeared  utterly  shameless  and  incapable 
of  either  excuse  or  pardon.  The  more  she  thought  about  it 
the  more  indignant  she  felt,  rebelling  against  it  all  in  her 
horror  of  deceit  and  her  faithfulness  of  heart.  When  one 
had  once  bestowed  one's  self,  one  could  not  withdraw  the  gift. 

'  Be  off !  Pack  up  your  things  at  once  and  be  off ! '  she 
repeated. 

Louise,  completely  overcome,  unable  to  find  a  word  to 
say  in  her  own  defence,  had  already  opened  her  drawers  to 
get  her  clothes  together.  But  Madame  Chanteau  was  grow- 
ing angry. 

'  Stay  where  you  are,  Louisette.  Am  I  the  mistress  of 
my  own  house  ?  Who  is  it  that  presumes  to  give  orders  here 
and  allows  herself  to  send  my  guests  away  ?  Such  behaviour 
is  infamous  !  We  are  not  living  in  a  slum  here  ! ' 

'  Didn't  you  hear  me,  then  ?  '  cried  Pauline.  '  I  caught 
her  up  there  with  Lazare.  He  had  her  in  his  arms,  and  was 
kissing  her !  ' 

Madame  Chanteau  shrugged  her  shoulders.  All  her 
stored-up  bitterness  broke  out  in  words  of  base  suspicion. 

'  They  were  only  playing ;  where  was  the  harm  of  it  ? 
When  he  was  nursing  you  in  your  room,  did  we  ever 
interfere  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  145 

The  young  girl's  excitement  suddenly  subsided.  She 
Btood  quite  motionless,  pale,  astounded  at  the  accusation 
which  was  thus  launched  against  her.  It  was  she  who  was 
now  being  arraigned  as  guilty  ;  her  aunt  appeared  to  suspect 
her  of  disgraceful  conduct. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  she  cried.  '  If  you  had  really 
thought  anything  wrong  you  would  not  have  allowed  it  for  a 
moment !  ' 

'  Well,  you  are  not  children !  But  I  don't  want  my  son  to 
lead  a  whole  life  of  misconduct.  And  you  had  better  leave 
off  harassing  those  who  still  remain  honest  women.' 

For  a  moment  Pauline  continued  silent,  with  her  big 
pure  eyes  fixed  upon  Madame  Chanteau,  who  turned  her  own 
away.  Then  she  went  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  saying 
curtly : 

'  Very  well,  it  is  I  who  will  leave.' 

Then  silence  fell  again,  a  heavy  silence,  in  which  the 
whole  house  seemed  to  collapse.  Athwart  that  sudden 
quietude  Chanteau' s  groans  suddenly  rose  once  more  like 
those  of  an  agonized  deserted  animal.  They  seemed  to  grow 
louder  and  louder ;  they  made  themselves  distinctly  heard 
till  they  drowned  all  other  sound. 

And  now  Madame  Chanteau  began  to  regret  the  words 
which  had  escaped  her.  She  recognised  the  irreparable 
nature  of  the  insult,  and  felt  much  disturbed  in  mind  lest 
Pauline  should  actually  carry  out  her  threat  of  immediate 
departure.  With  such  a  girl  everything  was  possible,  and 
what  would  people  say  of  herself  and  her  husband  if  their 
ward  should  set  off  scouring  the  country  and  telling  the 
story  of  their  rupture  ?  Perhaps  she  would  take  refuge  with 
Doctor  Cazenove,  which  would  certainly  give  rise  to  a  dread- 
ful scandal  in  the  district.  At  the  bottom  of  Madame 
Chanteau 's  embarrassment  there  lurked  a  fear  of  the  past ; 
of  all  the  money  which  had  been  lost — a  loss  which  might 
suddenly  be  brought  up  against  them. 

'Don't  cry,  Louisette,'  she  said,  feeling  angry  with  Pau- 
line again.  '  Here  we  are,  in  a  bother  again  all  through  her 
folly.  She's  always  going  on  in  this  mad,  violent  way.  It's 
impossible  to  live  quietly  with  her.  But  I  will  try  to  make 
matters  comfortable.' 

'  Oh  no,  let  me  go  away,  I  beg  you,'  Louise  cried.  '  It 
would  be  too  painful  for  me  to  stop  here.  She  is  right ;  I 
had  better  go.' 

L 


i46  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

'  Not  to-night,  at  any  rate.  I  must  see  you  safely  to  your 
father's  house.  Just  wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  go  upstairs 
and  see  if  she  is  really  packing  her  things.' 

Madame  Chanteau  gently  went  upstairs  and  listened  at 
Pauline's  door.  She  heard  her  walking  hurriedly  about  the 
room,  opening  and  shutting  her  drawers.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  of  entering,  provoking  an  explanation,  and  bringing 
the  affair  to  an  end  with  a  flood  of  tears.  But  she  was  afraid ; 
she  felt  that  she  would  stammer  and  blush  before  the  girl, 
and  this  feeling  served  to  increase  her  hatred  of  her.  So, 
instead  of  knocking  at  the  door,  she  went  downstairs  to  the 
kitchen,  treading  as  silently  as  she  could.  An  idea  had  just 
occurred  to  her. 

'  Have  you  heard  the  row  to  which  Mademoiselle  Pauline 
has  just  been  treating  us  ? '  she  asked  Ve"ronique,  who  had 
begun  furiously  polishing  her  brass-ware. 

The  servant,  with  her  head  bent  over  the  polish,  made  no 
answer. 

'  She  is  getting  quite  unbearable  I  I  can  do  nothing  with 
her.  Would  you  believe  that  she  is  actually  talking  about 
leaving  us  at  once  ?  She  is  packing  her  things  at  this 
moment.  I  wish  you  would  go  upstairs  and  try  to  reason 
with  her.' 

Then,  as  she  still  got  no  answer,  she  added : 

'  Are  you  deaf  ?  ' 

'  If  I  don't  answer,  it's  because  I  don't  choose,'  V6ronique 
cried  snappishly,  bursting  with  angry  excitement,  and 
rubbing  a  candlestick  violently  enough  to  hurt  her  fingers. 
'  She  is  quite  right  in  going  away.  If  I  had  been  in  her 
place,  I  would  have  taken  myself  off  long  ago.' 

Madame  Chanteau  listened  with  gaping  lips,  quite  stupe- 
fied by  this  mutinous  outburst  of  loquacity. 

'  I'm  not  talkative,'  V6ronique  continued,  '  but  you 
mustn't  press  me  too  far  or  I  shall  let  out  all  I  think.  I 
should  have  liked  to  fling  Mademoiselle  Pauline  into  the  sea 
on  the  day  you  first  brought  her  here  as  a  little  girl,  but  I 
can't  bear  to  see  anyone  ill-treated,  and  you  have  all  of  you 
treated  her  so  abominably  that  one  of  these  days  I  shall  give 
anyone  who  hurts  her  a  swinging  box  on  the  ears.  You  can 
give  me  warning,  if  you  like ;  I  don't  care  a  button ;  but  I  will 
let  her  into  some  nice  secrets.  Yes,  she  shall  know  all  about 
how  you  have  treated  her,  with  all  your  fine  pretences  to 
honour  and  honesty.' 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  147 

1  Hold  your  tongue !  You  are  quite  mad  ! '  cried  Madame 
Chanteau,  much  disquieted  by  this  fresh  explosion. 

'  No,  I  will  not  hold  my  tongue !  It  is  all  too  shameful ! 
Shameful,  I  say  !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  have  been  choking 
with  it  all  for  years  and  years  !  Wasn't  it  bad  enough  of 
you  to  rob  her  of  her  money  ?  Couldn't  you  have  been 
content  with  that,  without  tearing  her  poor  little  heart  to 
shreds  ?  Oh  yes !  I  know  all  about  it ;  I  have  seen  through 
all  your  underhand  plottings.  Monsieur  Lazare  is  perhaps 
not  quite  so  calculating  as  you  are ;  but  in  other  respects  he's 
not  much  better  than  you,  for  he  wouldn't  much  mind  giving 
her  her  death-blow  out  of  mere  selfishness,  just  to  save  him- 
self from  feeling  bored  !  Ah,  me  !  there  are  some  people  who 
come  into  this  world  only  to  be  preyed  upon  and  devoured  by 
others.' 

She  flourished  the  candlestick  about,  and  then  caught 
hold  of  a  pan,  which  rumbled  like  a  drum  under  the  violent 
rubbing  she  gave  it.  Madame  Chanteau  had  been  sorely 
tempted  to  turn  her  out  of  the  house  at  once,  but  she  suc- 
ceeded in  restraining  herself  and  said  to  her  icily : 

'  So  you  won't  go  up  and  speak  to  the  girl  ?  It  would  be 
for  her  own  good,  to  prevent  her  from  committing  a  piece  of 
folly.' 

Ve'ronique  became  silent  again,  but  at  last  she  growled 
out: 

'I'll  go  up  to  her.  Reason  is  reason,  after  all,  and  an 
inconsiderate  act  never  does  any  good.' 

She  stayed  for  a  minute  or  two  to  wash  her  hands,  and 
then  took  off  her  dirty  apron.  When  she  opened  the  door 
in  the  passage  to  make  her  way  to  the  stairs  a  loud  wail 
rushed  in.  It  was  the  ceaseless  heart-rending  wail  of  Chan- 
teau. Madame  Chanteau,  who  was  following  Veronique, 
thereupon  seemed  struck  with  an  idea,  and  exclaimed  in  an 
undertone,  emphasising  her  words  : 

1  Tell  her  that  she  can't  think  of  leaving  her  uncle  in  the 
dreadful  state  in  which  he  is.  Do  you  hear  ? ' 

'  Well,  he  certainly  is  bellowing  hard ;  there's  no  doubt 
of  that,'  Veronique  replied. 

She  went  up  the  stairs,  while  her  mistress,  who  had 
stretched  out  her  hand  towards  her  husband's  room,  pur- 
posely refrained  from  closing  the  door.  The  sick  man's 
groans  ascended  the  staircase,  increasing  in  volume  at  every 
fresh  storey.  When  V6ronique  reached  Pauline's  room  she 

L2 


i48  THE  JOV  OF  LIFE 

found  her  just  on  the  point  of  leaving,  having  fastened  up  in 
a  bundle  what  little  linen  she  would  absolutely  require,  and 
intending  to  send  old  Malivoire  to  fetch  the  rest  in  the 
morning.  She  had  calmed  down  again,  and,  though  very 
pale  and  low-spirited,  was  simply  obeying  the  dictates  of  her 
reason  without  any  feeling  of  anger. 

'  Either  she  or  I,'  was  the  only  answer  she  returned  to  all 
that  Ve"ronique  said,  and  she  sedulously  avoided  mentioning 
Louise's  name. 

When  Ve"ronique  conveyed  this  reply  to  Madame  Chanteau, 
she  found  the  latter  in  Louise's  room,  where  the  girl,  having 
dressed  herself — for  on  her  side  she  was  determined  to  go 
away — stood  trembling,  alarmed  at  the  slightest  creaking  of 
the  door.  Madame  Chanteau  waa  obliged  to  yield,  and  sent 
to  Verchemont  for  the  baker's  trap,  saying  that  she  would 
take  Louise  to  her  Aunt  Le"onie  at  Arromanches.  They 
would  invent  some  story  to  tell  this  lady ;  they  would  make 
the  violence  of  Chanteau' s  attack  a  pretext,  alleging  that  his 
screams  had  become  quite  unendurable. 

After  the  departure  of  the  two  ladies,  whom  Lazare  safely 
seated  in  the  baker's  trap,  V6ronique  shouted  in  the  passage 
at  the  top  of  her  voice : 

'  You  can  come  downstairs  now,  Mademoiselle  Pauline ; 
there  is  nobody  here.' 

The  house  seemed  empty ;  the  heavy  gloomy  silence  was 
broken  only  by  Chanteau's  perpetual  groans,  which  became 
louder  and  louder.  As  Pauline  came  down  the  last  step 
Lazare,  returning  to  the  house  from  the  yard,  met  her  face 
to  face.  His  whole  body  shook  with  a  nervous  trembling  ; 
he  paused  for  a  moment,  as  though  anxious  to  confess  his 
fault  and  implore  forgiveness,  but  a  rush  of  tears  choked  his 
voice,  and  he  hurried  up  to  his  own  room,  without  having 
been  able  to  say  a  word. 

Chanteau  was  still  lying  with  his  head  across  the  bolster 
and  his  arm  rigidly  outstretched.  He  no  longer  dared  make 
the  slightest  movement ;  doubtless  he  had  not  even  been 
aware  of  Pauline's  absence,  as  he  lay  there  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  mouth  open  to  yell  and  groan.  None  of  the 
sounds  of  the  house  reached  him  ;  and  all  he  thought  of  was 
to  complain  as  long  and  as  loudly  as  his  breath  would  let 
him.  His  cries  grew  more  and  more  desperate,  till  they  at 
last  seriously  disturbed  Minouche,  who  had  had  a  family  of 
four  kittens  thrown  away  that  morning,  and  who,  already 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  149 

quite  forgetful  of  them,  had  been  purring  lazily  on  an  arm- 
chair. 

When  Pauline  took  her  place  again,  her  uncle  howled  so 
loudly  that  the  cat  got  up,  unable  to  endure  the  din.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  sick  man,  with  the  indignation 
of  a  well-behaved  person  whose  serenity  is  disturbed.  If  she 
could  not  be  allowed  to  purr  in  peace,  it  would  be  impossible 
for  her  to  stop  there.  And  she  took  herself  off,  with  her  tail 
in  the  air. 


VI 

WHEN  Madame  Chanteau  returned  home  again  in  the  evening, 
a  few  minutes  before  dinner,  no  further  mention  was  made  of 
Louise.  She  merely  called  to  Ve"ronique  to  come  and  take 
her  boots  off.  Her  left  foot  was  paining  her. 

'  Little  wonder  of  that ! '  the  servant  murmured.  '  It's 
quite  swollen.' 

The  seams  of  the  leather  had  indeed  left  crimson  marks 
on  the  soft  white  skin.  Lazare,  who  had  just  come  down- 
stairs, looked  at  his  mother's  foot  and  said : 

'  You  have  been  walking  too  much.' 

But  she  had  really  only  walked  through  Arromanches. 
Besides  the  pain  in  her  foot,  she  that  day  experienced  a 
difficulty  in  breathing,  such  as  had  been  increasingly  affecting 
her  at  intervals  for  some  months  past.  Presently  she  began 
to  blame  her  boots  for  the  pain  she  was  enduring. 

'  Those  tiresome  bootmakers  don't  ever  seem  to  make  the 
instep  high  enough !  As  soon  as  ever  I  get  my  boots  on  I'm 
in  a  state  of  torture.' 

However,  as  she  felt  no  further  pain  after  she  had  put  on 
her  slippers,  nothing  more  was  thought  of  the  matter.  Next 
morning  the  swelling  had  extended  to  her  ankle,  but  by  the 
following  night  it  disappeared  altogether. 

A  week  passed.  From  the  very  first  dinner  at  which 
Pauline  had  again  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  Madame 
Chanteau  and  Lazare  they  had  all  forced  themselves  to 
resume  their  ordinary  demeanour  towards  each  other.  No 
allusion  was  made  to  what  had  occurred ;  everything  seemed 
to  be  just  the  same  as  usual.  The  family  life  went  on  in  the 
old  mechanical  way,  with  the  same  customary  expressions  of 
affection,  the  same  good-mornings  and  good-nights,  and  the 


1 5o  THE  fOY  OF  LIFE 

same  lifeless  kisses  given  at  fixed  hours.  A  feeling  of  great 
relief  came,  however,  that  they  were  at  last  able  to  wheel 
Chanteau  to  his  place  at  table.  This  time  his  knees  had 
remained  stiff  with  ankylosis,  and  he  could  not  stand  upright. 
But  none  the  less  he  enjoyed  his  freedom  from  actual  pain, 
and  was  so  entirely  wrapped  up  in  egotistical  satisfaction  at 
his  own  well-being  that  he  never  gave  a  thought  to  the 
joys  or  cares  of  the  other  members  of  the  family.  When 
Madame  Chanteau  ventured  to  mention  Louise's  sudden 
departure,  he  begged  her  not  to  speak  to  him  of  such  melan- 
choly matters.  Pauline,  now  freed  from  her  attendance  in 
her  uncle's  room,  tried  to  find  some  other  means  of  occupying 
herself,  but  she  could  not  conceal  the  grief  oppressing  her. 
She  found  the  evenings  especially  painful,  and  her  distress 
was  plainly  visible  despite  all  her  affectation  of  calmness. 
Ostensibly  everything  was  just  the  same  as  usual,  and  the 
old  every-day  routine  was  gone  through ;  but  every  now  and 
then  a  nervous  gesture  or  even  a  momentary  pause  would 
make  them  all  conscious  of  the  hidden  breach,  the  rift  of 
which  they  never  spoke,  but  which  was,  all  the  same,  always 
widening. 

At  first  Lazare  had  felt  contempt  for  himself.  The 
moral  superiority  of  Pauline,  who  was  so  upright  and  just, 
had  filled  him  with  shame  and  vexation.  Why  had  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  go  to  her,  confess  his  fault,  and  ask 
her  pardon  ?  He  might  have  told  her  the  whole  truth,  how 
he  had  suddenly  been  excited  and  carried  away  by  the 
presence  of  Louise,  whose  glamour  had  intoxicated  him ; 
and  his  cousin  was  too  generous  and  large-hearted  not  to 
understand  and  make  allowances.  But  insurmountable  em- 
barrassment had  kept  him  back  ;  he  felt  afraid  of  cutting  a  still 
more  contemptible  figure  in  the  girl's  eyes  by  entering  upon 
an  explanation  in  which  he  would  very  likely  stammer 
and  hesitate  like  a  child.  Beneath  his  hesitation,  too, 
there  lurked  the  fear  of  telling  another  falsehood,  for 
his  thoughts  were  still  full  of  Louise,  her  image  was  per- 
petually haunting  him.  In  spite  of  himself,  his  long  walks 
always  seemed  to  lead  him  into  the  neighbourhood  of 
Arromanches.  One  evening  he  went  right  on  to  Aunt 
Leonie's  little  house  and  prowled  round  it,  hurriedly  taking 
flight  as  he  heard  a  shutter  move,  all  confusion  at  the 
baseness  he  had  contemplated.  It  was  the  sense  of  his  own 
unworthiness  that  doubled  his  feeling  of  shame  in  Pauline's 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  151 

presence ;  and  he  freely  condemned  himself,  though  he  could 
not  quench  his  passion.  The  struggle  was  perpetually  going 
on  within  his  mind,  and  never  before  had  his  natural  irreso- 
lution proved  such  a  source  of  pain  to  him.  He  only  had 
sufficient  honesty  and  strength  of  purpose  left  him  to  avoid 
Pauline  and  thus  escape  the  last  dishonour  of  perjuring  him- 
self. It  was  possible  that  he  still  loved  his  cousin,  but  the 
alluring  image  of  her  friend  was  ever  before  him,  blotting  out 
the  past  and  barring  the  future. 

Pauline,  on  her  side,  waited  for  his  defence  and  apology. 
In  her  first  outburst  of  indignation  she  had  sworn  that  she 
would  never  forgive  him.  Then  she  had  begun  to  suffer 
secretly  at  finding  that  her  forgiveness  had  not  been  asked. 
Why  did  he  keep  silence,  and  seem  so  feverish  and  restless, 
spending  all  his  time  out  of  doors,  as  though  he  were  afraid 
to  find  himself  alone  with  her?  She  was  quite  ready  to 
listen  to  him  and  to  forget  everything,  if  only  he  would  show 
a  little  repentance.  As  the  hoped-for  explanation  failed  to 
come,  she  racked  her  mind  to  find  reasons  for  her  cousin's 
silence.  Her  own  pride  kept  her  from  making  the  first 
advance ;  and,  as  the  days  painfully  and  slowly  passed,  she 
succeeded  in  conquering  herself  so  far  as  to  resume  all  her  old 
cheerful  activity.  But  beneath  that  brave  show  of  calmness 
there  lurked  everlasting  unhappiness,  and  in  her  own  room 
at  night  she  burst  into  fits  of  tears,  and  had  to  stifle  the 
sound  of  her  sobs  by  burying  her  head  in  her  pillow.  Nobody 
spoke  about  the  wedding,  though  it  was  evident  that 
they  all  thought  of  it.  The  autumn  was  coming  on  ;  what 
was  to  be  done  ?  Nobody  seemed  to  care  to  say  anything 
on  the  matter ;  they  all  avoided  coming  to  a  decision  till  they 
should  feel  able  to  discuss  it  again. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Madame  Chanteau  completely 
lost  her  head.  She  had  always  been  excitable  and  restless, 
but  the  dim  causes  which  had  undermined  all  her  good  prin- 
ciples had  now  reached  a  period  of  great  destructiveness. 
Never  before  had  she  found  herself  so  completely  off  her 
balance,  so  nervously  feverish  as  now.  The  necessity  for 
restraint  exasperated  her  torment.  She  suffered  from  her 
rageful  longing  for  money,  which  grew  stronger  day  by  day 
and  ended  by  carrying  off  her  reason  and  her  heart.  She  was 
continually  attacking  Pauline,  whom  she  now  began  to  blame 
for  Louise's  departure,  accusing  her  of  it  as  of  an  act  of 
robbery  that  had  despoiled  her  son.  She  felt  an  ever- open 


152  THE  JO  \    OF  LIFE 

wound  which  would  not  close ;  the  smallest  trifles  assumed 
monstrous  proportions ;  she  remembered  the  slightest  incidents 
of  the  horrid  scene  ;  she  could  still  hear  Pauline  crying,  '  Be 
off !  Be  off !  '  And  she  began  to  imagine  that  she  herself  was 
being  driven  away,  that  all  the  joy  and  the  fortune  of  the 
family  was  being  flung  into  the  streets.  At  night-time,  as  she 
rolled  about  in  bed  in  a  restless  semi- somnolent  state,  she 
even  regretted  that  death  had  not  freed  them  from  that 
accursed  Pauline.  Intricate  schemes  and  calculations  sprang 
up  in  wild  confusion  in  her  brain,  but  she  was  never  able  to  hit 
upon  any  practicable  means  of  getting  rid  of  the  girl. 

At  the  same  time  a  kind  of  reaction  seemed  to  increase  her 
affection  for  her  own  son,  and  she  worshipped  him  now  almost 
more  than  she  had  done  when  she  had  held  him  in  her  arms 
as  an  infant  and  had  possessed  his  undivided  love.  From 
morning  till  night  she  followed  him  with  her  anxious  eyes ; 
and  when  they  were  alone  together  she  would  throw  her  arms 
around  him  and  kiss  him,  and  beg  him  not  to  distress  himself. 
She  swore  to  him  that  everything  should  be  put  right,  that 
she  would  strangle  those  who  opposed  her  rather  than  have 
him  unhappy.  After  a  fortnight  of  this  continual  struggling, 
her  face  had  become  as  pale  as  wax,  though  she  grew  no 
thinner.  The  swelling  in  her  feet  had  twice  appeared  again, 
and  had  then  subsided. 

One  morning  she  rang  for  V^ronique,  to  whom  she  showed 
her  legs,  which  had  swollen  to  the  thighs  during  the  night. 

'  Just  look  at  the  state  I'm  in  1  Isn't  it  provoking  ?  I 
wanted  to  go  out  so  much  to-day,  and  now  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  stay  in  bed  !  Don't  say  anything  about  it  for  fear  of 
alarming  Lazare.' 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  alarmed  herself.  She  merely 
remarked  that  she  felt  a  little  tired,  and  the  members  of  the 
family  simply  supposed  that  she  was  suffering  from  a  slight 
attack  of  lumbago.  As  Lazare  had  gone  off  on  one  of  his 
rambles  along  the  shore,  and  Pauline  refrained  from  entering 
her  aunt's  room,  knowing  that  her  presence  there  would  be 
unwelcome,  the  sick  woman  occupied  herself  by  dinning 
furious  charges  against  her  niece  into  the  servant's  ears.  She 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  control  of  herself.  The  immobility  to 
which  she  was  condemned  and  the  palpitations  of  the  heart 
which  stifled  her  at  the  slightest  movement  goaded  her  into 
ever-increasing  exasperation. 

'  What's  she  doing  downstairs  ?    Up  to  some  fresh  wicked- 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  153 

ness,  I'm  sure !     She'll  never  think  of  bringing  me  even  a 
glass  of  water,  you'll  see ! ' 

'  But,  Madame,'  urged  Veronique, '  it  is  you  who  drive  her 
from  you.' 

'Ah!  you  don't  know  her!  There  never  was  such  a 
hypocrite  as  she  is.  Before  other  people  she  pretends  to  be 
kind  and  generous,  but  there's  nothing  she  wouldn't  do  or 
say  when  your  back's  turned.  Yes,  my  good  girl,  you  were 
the  only  one  who  saw  things  clearly  on  the  day  I  first  brought 
her  here.  If  she  had  never  come,  we  shouldn't  now  be  in  the 
state  we  are.  She  will  prove  the  ruin  of  us  all.  Your  master 
has  suffered  all  the  agonies  of  the  damned  since  she  has  been 
in  this  house,  and  she  has  worried  and  distressed  me  till  she 
has  quite  undermined  my  health ;  while  as  for  my  son,  she 
made  him  lose  his  head  entirely.' 

'  Oh,  Madame  !  how  can  you  say  that  when  she  is  so  kind 
and  good  to  you  all  ? ' 

Eight  up  to  the  evening  Madame  Chanteau  thus  unbur- 
dened herself  of  her  anger.  She  raved  about  everything,  par- 
ticularly about  the  abominable  way  in  which  Louise  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  house,  though  it  was  the  money  question 
that  aroused  her  greatest  anger.  When  Veronique,  after- 
dinner,  was  able  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen  again  she  found 
Pauline  there,  occupying  herself  by  putting  the  crockery 
away ;  and  so  the  servant,  in  her  turn,  took  the  opportunity 
of  unburdening  herself  of  the  angry  indignation  which  was 
choking  her. 

'  Ah  !  Mademoiselle,  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  bother  about 
their  plates.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  smash  the  whole  lot 
to  bits !  ' 

'  What  for  ?  '  the  girl  asked  in  astonishment. 

1  Because,  whatever  you  were  to  do,  you  couldn't  come  up 
to  half  of  what  they  accuse  you  of ! ' 

Then  she  broke  out  angrily,  raking  up  everything  from  the 
day  of  Pauline's  arrival  there. 

1  It  would  put  God  Almighty  Himself  into  a  rage  to  see 
such  things  !  She  has  drained  your  money  away  sou  by 
sou,  and  she  has  done  it  in  the  most  shameless  manner 
imaginable.  Upon  my  word,  to  hear  her  talk  one  would 
suppose  that  it  was  she  who  had  been  keeping  you.  When 
she  had  your  money  in  her  secretaire  she  made  ever  so  much 
fuss  about  keeping  it  safe  and  untouched,  but  all  that  didn't 
prevent  her  greedy  hands  from  digging  pretty  big  holes  in 


154  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

it.  It's  a  nice  piece  of  play-acting  that  she's  be^n  keeping 
up  all  this  time,  contriving  to  make  you  pay  for  those  salt 
workshops  and  then  keeping  the  pot  boiling  with  what  was 
left !  Ah  !  I  daresay  you  don't  know,  but  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you  they  would  all  have  starved !  She  got  into  a  pretty 
flurry  when  the  people  in  Paris  began  to  worry  her  about 
the  accounts !  Yes,  indeed,  you  could  have  had  her  sent 
right  off  to  the  assize  court  if  you  had  liked.  But  that  didn't 
teach  her  any  lesson ;  she's  still  robbing  you,  and  she'll  end 
by  stripping  you  of  your  very  last  copper.  I  daresay  you 
think  I'm  not  speaking  the  truth,  but  I  swear  that  I  am !  I 
have  seen  it  all  with  my  eyes  and  heard  it  with  my  ears ; 
and  I  have  too  much  respect  for  you,  Mademoiselle,  to 
tell  you  the  worst  things,  such  as  how  she  went  on  when 
you  were  ill  and  she  couldn't  go  rummaging  in  your  chest 
of  drawers.' 

Pauline  listened  without  finding  a  single  word  with  which 
to  interrupt  the  narrative.  The  thought  that  the  family 
were  actually  living  upon  her  and  rapaciously  plundering 
her  had,  indeed,  frequently  cast  a  gloom  over  her  happiest 
days.  But  she  had  always  refused  to  allow  her  mind  to 
dwell  on  the  subject ;  she  had  preferred  to  go  on  living  in 
ignorance  and  accusing  herself  secretly  of  avarice.  To-day, 
however,  she  had  to  hear  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter,  and 
Ve"ronique's  outspokenness  seemed  to  make  facts  worse  than 
she  had  believed.  At  each  fresh  sentence  the  young  girl's 
memory  awoke  within  her;  she  recalled  old  incidents,  the 
exact  meaning  of  which  she  had  not  at  the  time  understood, 
and  she  now  saw  clearly  through  all  Madame  Chanteau's 
machinations  to  get  hold  of  her  money.  Whilst  listening 
she  had  slowly  dropped  upon  a  chair,  as  though  suddenly 
overcome  with  great  fatigue,  and  an  expression  of  grief  and 
pain  appeared  upon  her  lips. 

'  You  are  exaggerating  \ '  she  murmured. 

'  Exaggerating !  I ! '  Ve'ronique  continued  violently.  '  It 
isn't  so  much  the  money  part  of  the  business  that  makes  me 
so  angry.  But  what  I  can't  forgive  her  is  for  having  taken 
Monsieur  Lazare  from  you  after  once  having  given  him  to 
you.  Oh  yes  I  it  was  very  nice  of  her  to  rob  you  of  your 
money  and  then  to  turn  against  you  because  you  were  no 
longer  rich  enough,  and  Monsieur  Lazare  must  needs  marry 
an  heiress  1  Yes,  indeed ;  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  They 
first  pillage  you,  and  then  toss  you  aside  because  you  are  no 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  155 

longer  rich  enough  for  them  !  No,  Mademoiselle,  I  will  not 
give  over  !  There  is  no  need  to  tear  people's  hearts  to  shreds 
after  emptying  their  pockets.  As  you  loved  your  cousin, 
and  it  was  his  duty  to  pay  you  back  with  affection  and 
kindness,  why,  it  was  abominable  of  your  aunt  to  steal  him 
from  you !  She  did  everything.  I  saw  through  it  all !  Yes, 
every  evening  she  excited  the  girl ;  she  made  her  fall  in  love 
with  the  young  man  by  all  her  talk  about  him.  As  certainly 
as  that  lamp  is  shining,  it  was  she  who  threw  them  into 
each  other's  arms.  Bah  !  she  would  have  been  only  too  glad 
to  have  seen  them  compelled  to  marry  ;  and  it  isn't  her  fault 
if  that  didn't  take  place.  Try  and  defend  her  if  you  can, 
she  who  trampled  you  under  foot  and  caused  you  so  much 
grief,  for  you  sob  in  the  night  like  a  Magdalene  !  I  can  hear 
you  from  my  room  !  I  feel  beside  myself  with  all  that  cruelty 
and  injustice ! ' 

1  Don't  say  any  more,  1  beseech  you ! '  stammered  Pauline, 
whose  courage  failed  her.  'You  are  giving  me  too  great 
pain.' 

Big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  felt  quite  con- 
scious that  Veronique  was  only  telling  her  the  truth,  and 
her  heart  bled  within  her.  All  the  past  sprang  up  before 
her  eyes  in  lively  reality,  and  she  again  saw  Lazare  pressing 
Louise  to  his  breast,  while  Madame  Chanteau  kept  guard 
on  the  landing.  Ah,  God !  what  had  she  done  that  every- 
one should  join  in  deceiving  her,  when  she  herself  had  kept 
faith  with  all  ? 

'  I  beg  you,  say  no  more !     I  am  choking  with  it  all ! ' 

Then  Veronique,  seeing  that  she  was  painfully  overcome, 
contented  herself  with  adding : 

'  Well,  it's  for  your  sake  and  not  for  hers  that  I  don't  go 
on.  She's  been  spitting  out  a  string  of  abominations  about 
you  ever  since  the  morning.  She  quite  exhausts  my  patience 
and  makes  my  blood  boil  when  I  hear  her  turning  all  the 
kindnesses  you've  done  her  into  evil.  Yes,  indeed!  She 
pretends  that  you  have  been  the  ruin  of  the  family,  and  that 
now  you  are  killing  her  son  !  Go  and  listen  at  the  door,  if 
you  don't  believe  me ! ' 

Then,  as  Pauline  burst  into  a  fit  of  sobbing,  Veronique, 
quite  unnerved,  flung  her  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed 
her  hair,  saying : 

'  There,  there,  Mademoiselle,  I'll  say  no  more.  But  it's 
only  right  that  you  should  know.  It's  too  shameful  for  you 


156  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

to  be  treated  in  such  a  way.  But  there,  I  won't  say  another 
word,  so  don't  take  on  so  I' 

They  were  silent  for  a  time,  while  the  servant  raked  out 
the  embers  still  burning  in  the  grate,  but  she  could  not 
refrain  from  growling : 

'  I  know  very  well  why  she's  swelling  out !  All  her 
wickedness  has  gathered  in  her  knees  !  ' 

Pauline,  who  was  looking  intently  at  the  tiled  floor,  her 
mind  upset  and  heavy  with  grief,  raised  her  eyes  and  asked 
Ve"ronique  what  she  meant.  Had  the  swelling,  then,  come 
back  again  ?  The  servant  showed  some  embarrassment,  aa 
she  had  to  break  the  promise  of  silence  which  she  had  given 
to  Madame  Chanteau.  Though  she  allowed  herself  full  liberty 
to  judge  her  mistress,  she  still  obeyed  her  orders.  Now,  how- 
ever, she  was  obliged  to  admit  that  her  legs  had  again  swollen 
badly  during  the  night,  though  Monsieur  Lazare  was  not 
to  know  it.  While  the  servant  gave  details  of  Madame 
Chanteau's  condition  the  expression  of  Pauline's  face 
changed — depression  gave  place  to  anxiety.  In  spite  of  all 
that  she  had  just  learned  of  the  old  lady's  conduct,  she  was 
painfully  alarmed  by  the  appearance  of  symptoms  which  she 
knew  betokened  grave  danger. 

'  But  she  mustn't  be  left  alone  like  this ! '  she  exclaimed, 
springing  up.  '  She  is  in  danger  ! ' 

'  In  danger,  indeed  ? '  cried  Veronique,  unfeelingly.  '  She 
doesn't  at  all  look  like  it,  and  she  certainly  doesn't  think  so 
herself,  for  she's  far  too  busy  befouling  other  folks  and  giving 
herself  airs  in  her  bed  like  a  Pasha.  Besides,  she's  asleep 
just  now,  and  we  must  wait  till  to-morrow,  which  is  just  the 
day  when  the  Doctor  always  comes  to  Bonneville.' 

The  next  day  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  conceal  from 
Lazare  his  mother's  condition.  All  night  long  had  Pauline 
listened,  constantly  awakened  from  brief  dozes,  and  ever 
believing  that  she  heard  groans  ascending  through  the  floor. 
Then  in  the  morning  she  fell  into  so  deep  a  sleep  that  it  was 
only  at  nine  o'clock  she  was  roused  by  the  slamming  of 
a  door.  When,  after  hastily  dressing  herself,  she  went  down- 
stairs to  make  inquiries,  she  encountered  Lazare  on  the 
landing  of  the  first  floor.  He  had  just  left  his  mother's 
room.  The  swelling  was  reaching  her  stomach,  and 
Veronique  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  young  man 
must  be  warned, 

'Well?'  asked  Pauline. 


THE  JO  I    OF  LIFE  157 

At  first  Lazare,  who  looked  utterly  upset,  made  no  reply. 
Yielding  to  a  habit  that  had  grown  upon  him,  he  grasped 
his  chin  with  his  trembling  fingers,  and  when  at  last  he  tried 
to  speak  he  could  scarcely  stammer : 

'  It  is  all  over  with  her ! ' 

He  went  upstairs  to  his  own  room  with  a  dazed  air. 
Pauline  followed  him.  When  they  reached  that  big  room  on 
the  second  floor,  which  she  had  never  entered  since  the  day 
she  had  surprised  Louise  there  in  her  cousin's  arms,  Pauline 
closed  the  door  and  tried  to  reassure  the  young  man. 

'  You  don't  even  know  what  is  the  matter  with  her.  Wait 
till  the  Doctor  comes,  at  any  rate,  before  you  begin  to  alarm 
yourself.  She  is  very  strong,  and  we  may  always  hope  for 
the  best.' 

But  he  was  possessed  by  a  sudden  presentiment,  and  re- 
peated obstinately : 

'It  is  all  over  with  her  ;  all  over.' 

It  was  a  perfectly  unexpected  blow,  and  quite  overcame 
him.  When  he  had  risen  that  morning,  he  had  looked  at  the 
sea,  as  he  always  did,  yawning  with  boredom  and  complaining 
of  the  idiotic  emptiness  of  life.  Then,  his  mother  having 
shown  him  her  knees,  the  sight  of  her  poor  swollen  limbs, 
puffed  out  by  oedema,  huge  and  pallid,  looking  already  like 
lifeless  trunks,  had  thrilled  him  with  panic-stricken  tender- 
ness. It  was  always  like  this.  At  every  moment  fresh 
trouble  came.  Even  now,  as  he  sat  upon  the  edge  of  his  big 
table,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  he  did  not  dare  to  give  the 
name  of  the  disease  whose  symptoms  he  had  recognised. 
He  had  ever  been  haunted  by  a  dread  of  heart  disease  seizing 
upon  himself  and  his  relations,  for  his  two  years  of  medical 
study  had  not  sufficed  to  show  him  that  all  diseases  were 
liable  to  lead  to  death.  To  be  stricken  at  the  heart,  at  the 
very  source  of  life,  that  to  him  seemed  the  all-terrible,  pitiless 
cause  of  death.  And  it  was  this  death  that  his  mother  was 
going  to  die,  and  which  he  himself  would  infallibly  die  also 
in  his  own  turn  ! 

'  Why  should  you  distress  yourself  in  this  way  ?  '  Pauline 
asked  him.  '  Plenty  of  dropsical  people  live  for  a  very  long 
time.  Don't  you  remember  Madame  Simonnot  ?  She  died 
in  the  end  of  inflammation  of  the  lungs.' 

But  Lazare  only  shook  his  head.  He  was  not  a  child,  to 
be  deceived  in  that  manner.  His  feet  went  on  swinging 
to  and  fro,  and  he  still  continued  trembling,  while  he  kept 


i58  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

his  eyes  fixed  persistently  on  the  window.  Then,  for  the 
first  time  since  their  rupture,  Pauline  kissed  him  on  the 
brow  in  her  old  manner.  They  were  together  again,  side  by 
side,  in  that  big  room,  where  they  had  grown  up,  and  all 
their  feeling  against  one  another  had  died  away  before  the 
great  grief  which  was  threatening  them.  The  girl  wiped  the 
tears  from  her  eyes,  but  Lazare  could  not  cry,  and  simply 
went  on  repeating,  mechanically,  as  it  were :  '  It  is  all  over 
with  her  ;  all  over.' 

When  Doctor  Cazenove  called,  about  eleven  o'clock,  as  he 
generally  did  every  week  after  his  round  through  Bonneville, 
he  appeared  very  much  astonished  at  finding  Madame  Chan- 
teau  in  bed.  '  What  was  the  matter  with  the  dear  lady  ?  ' 
he  asked.  He  even  grew  jocular,  and  declared  that  they  were 
quite  turning  the  house  into  an  ambulance.  But  when  he  had 
examined  and  sounded  the  patient,  he  became  more  serious, 
and,  indeed,  needed  all  his  great  experience  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  he  was  much  alarmed. 

Madame  Chanteau  herself  had  no  idea  of  the  gravity  of 
her  cdndition. 

'  I  hope  you  are  going  to  get  me  out  of  this,  Doctor,'  she 
said  gaily.  '  There's  only  one  thing  I'm  frightened  about, 
and  that  is  that  this  swelling  may  stifle  me  if  it  goes  on 
mounting  higher  and  higher.' 

'  Oh !  keep  yourself  easy  about  that,'  he  replied,  smiling 
in  turn.  '  It  won't  go  any  higher,  and  if  it  does  we  shall 
know  how  to  stop  it.' 

Lazare,  who  had  come  into  the  room  after  the  Doctor's 
examination,  listened  to  him  trembling,  burning  to  take 
him  aside  and  question  him,  so  that  he  might  know  the 
worst. 

'Now,  my  dear  Madame,'  Doctor  Cazenove  resumed, 
'don't  worry  yourself.  I  will  come  and  have  a  little  chat 
with  you  again  to-morrow.  Good-morning ;  I  will  write  my 
prescription  downstairs.' 

When  they  got  down,  Pauline  prevented  the  Doctor  and 
Lazare  from  entering  the  dining-room,  for  in  Chanteau's 
presence  nothing  more  serious  than  ordinary  lumbago  had 
$ver  been  mentioned.  The  girl  had  already  put  ink  and 
paper  on  the  table  in  the  kitchen.  And,  noticing  their  im- 
patient anxiety,  Doctor  Cazenove  confessed  that  the  case  was 
a  grave  one ;  but  he  spoke  in  long  and  involved  sentences, 
and  avoided  telling  them  anything  definite. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  159 

'  You  mean  that  it  is  all  over  with  her,  eh  ? '  Lazare  cried 
at  last,  in  a  kind  of  irritation.  '  It's  the  heart,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

Pauline  gave  the  Doctor  a  glance  full  of  entreaty,  which 
he  understood. 

'  The  heart  ?  Well,  I'm  not  quite  so  sure  about  that,'  he 
replied.  '  But,  at  any  rate,  even  if  we  can't  quite  cure  her, 
she  may  go  on  for  a  long  time  yet,  with  care.' 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  the  angry 
fashion  of  a  child  who  is  not  to  be  taken  in  by  fine  stories. 
Then  he  exclaimed : 

'  And  you  never  gave  me  any  warning,  Doctor,  though 
you  attended  her  quite  recently !  These  dreadful  diseases 
never  come  on  all  at  once.  Had  you  no  idea  of  it  ? ' 

'  Well,  yes,'  Cazenove  murmured,  '  I  had  indeed  noticed 
some  faint  indications.' 

Then,  as  Lazare  broke  out  into  a  sneering  laugh,  he 
added : 

'  Listen  to  me,  my  fine  fellow.  I  don't  think  that  I'm  a 
greater  fool  than  others,  and  yet  this  is  not  the  first  time 
when  it  has  happened  to  me  to  have  had  no  inkling  of  what 
was  coming,  and  to  find  myself  taken  by  surprise.  It  is 
absurd  of  you  to  expect  us  to  be  able  to  know  everything ;  it 
is  already  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  spell  out  the  first  few 
lines  of  what  is  going  on  in  that  intricate  piece  of  mechanism 
— the  human  body.' 

He  seemed  vexed,  and  dashed  his  pen  about  angrily  as  he 
wrote  his  prescription,  tearing  the  thin  paper  provided  for 
him.  The  naval  surgeon  cropped  up  once  more  in  the 
brusque  movements  of  his  big  frame.  However,  when  he 
stood  up  again,  with  his  old  face  tanned  brown  with  the  sea 
air,  he  softened  as  he  saw  both  Pauline  and  Lazare  hanging 
their  heads  hopelessly  in  front  of  him. 

1  My  poor  children,'  he  said,  '  we  will  try  our  best  to  bring 
her  round.  You  know  that  I  never  put  on  grand  airs  before 
you.  So  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  can  say  nothing.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  is,  at  any  rate,  no  immediate  danger.' 

Then  he  left  the  house,  having  ascertained  that  Lazare 
had  a  supply  of  tincture  of  digitalis.  The  prescription  simply 
ordered  some  applications  of  this  tincture  to  the  patient's 
legs,  and  a  few  drops  of  it  to  be  taken  in  a  glass  of  sugar  and 
water.  This  treatment,  said  the  Doctor,  would  suffice  for  the 
moment ;  he  would  bring  some  pills  with  him  in  the  morning. 
It  was  possible,  too,  that  he  might  make  up  his  mind  to  bleed 


160  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

her.  Pauline  went  out  with  him  to  his  gig  in  order  to  ask 
him  to  tell  her  the  real  truth,  but  the  real  truth  was  that  he 
did  not  dare  to  say  one  thing  or  the  other.  When  she  re- 
turned into  the  kitchen  the  girl  found  Lazare  re-perusing  the 
prescription.  The  mere  word  digitalis  had  made  him  turn 
pale  once  more. 

'Don't  distress  yourself  so  much,'  said  Veronique,  who 
had  begun  to  pare  some  potatoes,  as  an  excuse  for  remaining 
where  they  were  and  hearing  what  was  said.  '  The  doctors 
are  all  croakers.  And  surely  there  can't  be  much  the  matter 
when  they  can't  tell  you  what  it  is.' 

They  began  to  discuss  the  question  round  the  bowl  into 
which  the  cook  was  cutting  the  potatoes,  and  Pauline  appeared 
to  grow  a  little  easier  in  her  mind.  She  had  gone  that 
morning  to  kiss  her  aunt,  and  had  found  her  looking  well. 
A  person  with  cheeks  like  hers  could  not  surely  be  dying. 
But  Lazare  went  on  twisting  the  prescription  with  his 
feverish  fingers.  The  word  digitalis  blazed  before  his  eyes. 
His  mother  was  doomed. 

'  I  am  going  up  again,'  he  said  at  last. 

As  he  reached  the  door  he  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  turned 
to  his  cousin  and  asked : 

'  Won't  you  come,  just  for  a  minute  ?  ' 

Pauline  then  seemed  to  hesitate  in  her  turn,  and  finally 
murmured : 

'  I'm  afraid  she  mightn't  be  pleased  if  I  did.' 

And  so,  after  a  moment  of  silent  embarrassment,  Lazare 
went  upstairs  by  himself,  without  saying  another  word. 

When  Lazare,  for  fear  lest  his  father  should  be  disquieted 
by  his  absence,  appeared  again  at  luncheon,  he  was  very 
pale.  From  time  to  time  during  the  day  a  ring  of  the  bell 
summoned  Veronique,  who  ran  up  with  platefuls  of  soup, 
which  the  patient  could  scarcely  be  induced  to  taste  ;  and 
when  she  came  downstairs  again  she  told  Pauline  that  the 
poor  young  man  was  growing  perfectly  distracted.  It  was 
heart-breaking,  she  said,  to  see  him  shivering  with  fever 
by  his  mother's  bedside,  wringing  his  hands  and  with  his  face 
racked  by  grief,  as  though  he  every  moment  feared  that  he 
should  see  her  torn  from  him.  About  three  o'clock,  as  the 
servant  came  downstairs  once  more,  she  leant  over  the 
balustrade  and  called  to  Pauline ;  and  as  the  girl  reached  the 
first-floor  landing  she  said  to  her : 

'  You  ought  to  go  in,  Mademoiselle,  and  help  him  a  little. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  161 

So  much  the  worse  if  it  displeases  her.  She  wants  Monsieur 
Lazare  to  turn  her  round,  and  he  can  only  groan,  without 
daring  to  touch  her.  And  she  won't  let  me  go  near  her ! ' 

Pauline  entered  the  room.  Madame  Chanteau  lay  back, 
propped  up  by  three  pillows,  and,  as  far  as  mere  appear- 
ances went,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  quick,  distressful 
breathing  which  set  her  shoulders  heaving,  she  might  have 
been  keeping  her  bed  from  sheer  idleness.  Lazare  stood 
before  her,  stammering : 

'  It's  on  your  right  side,  then,  that  you  want  me  to  turn 
you?' 

'  Yes ;  just  turn  me  a  little.  Ah !  my  poor  boy,  how 
difficult  it  seems  to  make  you  understand ! ' 

But  Pauline  had  already  taken  hold  gently  of  her  aunt 
and  turned  her,  saying : 

'Let  me  do  it!  I  am  used  to  doing  it  for  my  uncle. 
There  !  Are  you  comfortable  now  ? ' 

But  Madame  Chanteau  irritably  exclaimed  that  they  were 
shaking  her  to  pieces.  She  seemed  unable  to  make  the 
slightest  movement  without  being  almost  suffocated,  and  for 
a  moment,  indeed,  she  lay  panting,  with  her  face  quite  livid. 
Lazare  had  stepped  behind  the  bed-curtains  to  conceal  his 
expression  of  despair ;  still,  he  remained  present  while  Pauline 
rubbed  her  aunt's  legs  with  the  tincture  of  digitalis.  At  first 
he  turned  his  head  aside,  but  some  fascination  ever  made  his 
eyes  return  to  those  swollen  limbs,  those  inert  masses  of 
pale  flesh,  the  sight  of  which  made  him  almost  choke 
with  agony.  When  his  cousin  saw  how  utterly  upset  he 
was  she  thought  it  safer  to  send  him  out  of  the  room.  She 
went  up  to  him,  and,  as  Madame  Chanteau  dozed  off,  tired 
out  by  the  mere  changing  of  her  position,  she  whispered  to 
him  softly : 

'  You  would  do  better  to  go  away.' 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  resisted  ;  his  tears  blinded  him, 
Then  he  yielded  and  went  down,  ashamed,  and  sobbing  : 

'  Oh,  God !  God  !  I  cannot  endure  it !  I  cannot  endure 
it!' 

When  the  sick  woman  again  awoke,  she  did  not  at  first 
notice  her  son's  absence.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of 
stupor,  and  as  if  egotistically  seeking  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  really  alive.  Pauline's  presence  alone  appeared  to 
disquiet  her,  although  the  girl  sat  far  away  and  neither 
spoke  nor  moved.  As  her  aunt  bent  forward,  however,  she 

M 


162  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

felt  that  she  must  just  say  a  word  to  let  her  know  why 
Lazare  was  absent. 

'  It  is  I.  Don't  worry.  Lazare  has  gone  to  "Verchemont, 
where  he  has  to  see  the  carpenter.' 

'  All  right,'  Madame  Chanteau  murmured. 

'You  are  not  so  ill  that  he  should  neglect  his  business, 
are  you  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  certainly  not.' 

From  that  moment  she  spoke  but  seldom  of  her  son,  not- 
withstanding the  adoration  she  had  manifested  for  him  only 
the  previous  night.  He  became  obliterated  from  the  rest 
of  her  life,  after  being  so  long  the  sole  reason  and  object  of 
her  existence.  The  softening  of  her  brain,  which  was  now 
beginning,  merely  left  her  a  physical  anxiety  about  her  own 
health.  She  accepted  her  niece's  care  and  attendance,  with- 
out apparently  being  conscious  of  the  change,  merely  follow- 
ing her  constantly  with  her  eyes,  as  though  she  were  troubled 
by  increasing  suspicions  as  she  saw  the  girl  pass  to  and  fro 
before  the  bed. 

Lazare  had  gone  down  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  re- 
mained nerveless,  beside  himself.  The  whole  house  frightened 
him.  He  could  not  stay  in  his  own  room,  the  emptiness  of 
which  oppressed  him,  and  he  dared  not  cross  the  dining-room, 
where  the  sight  of  his  father,  quietly  reading  a  newspaper, 
threw  him  into  sobs.  So  it  was  to  the  kitchen  that  he 
constantly  betook  himself,  as  being  the  one  warm,  cheerful 
spot  in  the  house — one  where  he  was  comforted  by  the  sight 
of  V6ronique,  bustling  about  amongst  her  pans,  as  in  the  old 
tranquil  times.  As  she  saw  him  seat  himself  near  the 
fireplace  on  a  rush-bottomed  chair,  which  he  made  his  own, 
she  frankly  told  him  what  she  thought  of  his  lack  of  courage. 

'  It's  not  much  use  you  are,  Monsieur  Lazare.  It's  pool 
Mademoiselle  Pauline  who  will  have  everything  to  do  again. 
Anyone  would  suppose,  to  see  you,  that  there  had  never  been 
a  sick  woman  in  the  house  before,  and  yet,  when  your  cousin 
nearly  died  of  her  sore  throat,  you  nursed  her  so  attentively. 
Yes,  you  know  you  did,  and  you  stayed  with  her  for  a  whole 
fortnight  helping  her  to  change  her  position  whenever  it  was 
necessary.' 

Lazare  listened  to  Ve"ronique  with  a  feeling  of  surprise. 
This  inconsistency  of  his  had  not  struck  him  before,  and  he 
could  not  understand  hia  own  illogical  and  varying  feelings 
and  thoughts. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  163 

1  Yes  ;  that  is  quite  true,'  he  said,  'quite  true.' 

'  You  would  not  let  anybody  enter  the  room,'  the  servant 
continued,  '  and  Mademoiselle  was  even  a  more  distressing 
sight  than  Madame  is,  her  suffering  was  so  great.  When- 
ever I  came  away  from  her  room  I  felt  completely  upset,  and 
couldn't  have  eaten  a  mouthful  of  anything.  But  now  the 
mere  sight  of  your  mother  in  bed  makes  your  heart  faint. 
You  can't  even  take  her  a  cup  of  gruel.  Whatever  your 
mother  may  be,  you  ought  to  remember  that  she's  still  your 
mother.' 

Lazare  no  longer  heard  her ;  he  was  gazing  before  him 
into  space.  At  last  he  said  : 

'  I  can't  help  it ;  I  really  can't.  It'a  perhaps  because  it 
is  my  mother,  but  I  can't  do  anything.  When  I  see  her  and 
those  poor  legs  of  hers,  and  think  that  she  is  dying,  some- 
thing seems  to  be  snapping  inside  me,  and  I  should  burst  out 
crying  if  I  did  not  rush  from  the  room.' 

He  began  to  tremble  all  over  again.  He  had  picked  up 
a  knife  which  had  fallen  from  the  table,  and  gazed  at  it  with 
his  tear-dimmed  eyes  without  seeing  it.  For  some  time 
neither  spoke.  Ve"ronique  busied  herself  over  her  soup, 
which  was  cooking,  to  conceal  the  emotion  which  choked 
her.  At  last  she  resumed  : 

'  You  had  better  go  down  to  the  beach  for  a  little  while, 
Monsieur  Lazare.  You  bother  me  by  always  being  here  in 
my  way.  And  take  Matthew  with  you.  He  is  very  tiresome, 
and  no  more  knows  what  to  do  with  himself  than  you  do.  I 
have  no  end  of  trouble  to  keep  him  from  going  upstairs  to 
Madame's  room.' 

The  next  morning  Doctor  Cazenove  was  still  doubtful.  A 
sudden  catastrophe  was  possible,  he  said,  or  the  patient  might 
recover  for  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  if  the  swelling  could  be 
reduced.  He  gave  up  the  idea  of  bleeding  her,  and  confined 
himself  to  ordering  her  to  take  some  pills  which  he  brought, 
and  to  continue  the  use  of  the  tincture  of  digitalis.  His  air 
of  vexation  showed  that  he  felt  little  confidence  in  those 
remedies  in  a  case  of  organic  disorder,  when  the  successive 
derangement  of  every  organ  renders  a  physician's  skill  of  no 
avail.  However,  he  was  able  to  assure  them  that  the  sick 
woman  suffered  no  pain  ;  and,  indeed,  Madame  Chanteau 
made  no  complaint  of  actual  suffering.  Her  legs  felt  as 
heavy  as  lead,  and  she  breathed  with  constantly  increasing 
difficulty  whenever  she  moved;  but,  whilst  she  lay  there 

M  2 


164  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

quietly  on  her  back,  her  voice  remained  so  firm  and  strong, 
and  her  eyes  so  bright  and  clear,  that  even  she  herself  waa 
deceived  as  to  the  gravity  of  her  condition.  Her  son  was  the 
only  one  of  those  around  her  who  did  not  venture  to  be  hope- 
ful at  seeing  her  looking  so  calm.  When  the  Doctor  went  away 
in  his  gig,  he  told  them  not  to  grieve  too  much,  for  that  it 
was  a  great  mercy  both  for  herself  and  for  them  that  she  was 
quite  unaware  of  her  danger. 

The  first  night  had  been  a  very  hard  one  for  Pauline. 
Reclining  in  an  easy  chair,  she  had  not  been  able  to  get  any 
sleep,  for  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sick  woman  constantly 
filled  her  ears.  Whenever  she  was  on  the  point  of  dropping 
off,  her  aunt's  breath  seemed  to  shake  the  house ;  and  then, 
when  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  she  felt  sad  and  oppressed ; 
all  the  troubles  which  had  been  marring  her  life  for  the  last 
few  months  sprang  up  in  her  mind  with  fresh  force.  Even 
by  the  side  of  that  death-bed  she  could  not  feel  at  peace,  she 
could  not  constrain  herself  to  forgive.  Amidst  her  night- 
mare-like vigil  during  the  mournful  night  hours  Veronique's 
assertions  caused  her  great  torture.  Old  outbursts  of  anger 
and  bitter  jealousy  surged  up  in  her  again,  as  she  mentally 
recapitulated  the  painful  details.  To  be  loved  no  more  !  To 
find  herself  deceived,  betrayed  by  those  she  had  loved  !  And 
to  find  herself  all  alone,  full  of  contempt  and  revolt !  Her 
heart's  wound  opened  and  bled  afresh,  and  never  before  had 
she  experienced  such  bitter  pain  from  Lazare's  insulting 
faithlessness.  Since  they  had,  so  to  say,  murdered  her,  it 
mattered  little  to  her  now  who  died !  And,  amidst  her 
aunt's  heavy  breathing,  she  went  on  brooding  ceaselessly 
over  the  robbery  of  her  money  and  her  affections. 

The  next  morning  she  still  felt  contrary  influences  at 
work  within  her  ;  she  experienced  no  return  of  affection ;  it 
was  a  sense  of  duty  alone  which  kept  her  in  her  aunt's  room. 
The  consciousness  of  this  made  her  unhappy,  and  she 
wondered  if  she  too  were  growing  as  wicked  as  the  others. 
In  this  troubled  state  the  day  passed  away,  and,  discontented 
with  herself,  repelled  by  her  aunt's  suspicions,  she  forced 
herself  into  attentive  activity.  Madame  Ghanteau  received  her 
ministrations  snappishly,  and  followed  her  movements  with 
suspicious  eyes,  carefully  watching  her  every  action.  If  she 
asked  her  niece  for  a  handkerchief,  she  always  sniffed  it  before 
using  it,  and  when  she  saw  the  girl  bring  her  a  hot-water 
bottle  she  wanted  to  examine  the  jug. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  165 

'  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?  '  Pauline  whispered  very 
softly  to  Ve"ronique.  '  Does  she  think  me  capable  of  trying 
to  do  her  harm  ? ' 

When  Ve"ronique  gave  her  a  dose  of  her  draught  after 
the  Doctor  had  gone  away,  Madame  Chanteau,  not  noticing 
her  niece,  who  was  looking  for  some  linen  in  the  ward- 
robe, inquired  of  the  servant :  '  Did  the  Doctor  prepare 
this  ? ' 

'  No,  Madame,  it  was  Mademoiselle  Pauline.' 

Then  the  sick  woman  just  sipped  it  with  her  lips,  and 
made  a  grimace. 

'  Ah !  it  tastes  of  copper.  I  don't  know  what  she  has 
been  making  me  take,  but  I've  never  had  the  taste  of  copper 
out  of  my  mouth  since  yesterday.' 

And  suddenly  she  tossed  the  spoon  away  behind  the  bed. 
Ve"ronique  looked  on  in  amazement. 

'  Whatever's  the  matter  ?  What  an  idea  to  get  into  your 
head ! ' 

'I  don't  want  to  go  away  before  my  time,'  replied 
Madame  Chanteau,  as  she  laid  her  head  back  again  upon  her 
pillow.  '  Listen  1  my  lungs  are  quite  sound ;  and  it's  not 
impossible  that  she  may  go  before  I  do,  for  she  isn't  very 
healthy.'  .. 

Pauline  had  heard  her.  She  turned  with  a  heart-pang 
and  looked  at  V^ronique ;  and  instead  of  coming  any  nearer 
she  stepped  further  away,  feeling  quite  ashamed  of  her  aunt 
for  her  abominable  suspicions.  A  sudden  change  came  over 
her  feelings.  The  idea  of  that  unhappy  woman,  consumed 
by  fear  and  hatred,  moved  her  to  the  deepest  pity  ;  far  from 
feeling  any  increase  of  bitterness,  it  was  sorrowful  emotion 
that  she  experienced  as  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  all  the  medi- 
cine which  her  aunt  had  thrown  away  under  the  bed,  from 
a  fear  of  being  poisoned.  Until  the  evening  she  evinced 
persevering  gentleness,  and  did  not  appear  to  notice  the 
distrustful  glances  with  which  her  aunt  followed  every  motion 
of  her  hands.  Her  one  ardent  desire  was  to  overcome  the 
dying  woman's  fears  by  affectionate  attentions,  in  order  that 
she  might  not  carry  such  frightful  suspicions  to  the  grave. 
And  she  forbade  Ve"ronique  to  distress  Lazare  further  by 
telling  him  the  truth. 

Only  once  since  morning  had  Madame  Chanteau  asked  for 
her  son,  and  she  had  appeared  quite  content  with  the  first 
excuse  made  for  his  absence,  evincing  no  surprise  at  not 


1 66  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

seeing  him  again.  She  said  nothing  about  her  husband, 
expressed  no  uneasiness  whatever  about  his  being  left  alone 
in  the  dining-room.  All  the  world  was  gradually  disappear- 
ing for  her,  and,  minute  by  minute,  the  icy  coldness  of  her 
limbs  seemed  to  mount  higher  till  it  chilled  her  very  heart. 
Whenever  meal-time  came  round,  Pauline  had  to  go  down- 
stairs and  tell  some  fib  to  her  uncle.  In  the  evening  she  told 
one  to  Lazare  as  well,  assuring  him  that  the  swelling  was 
subsiding. 

In  the  night,  however,  the  disease  made  alarming  progress, 
and  the  next  morning,  soon  after  daybreak,  when  Pauline  and 
the  servant  beheld  the  sick  woman  they  were  terrified  by  the 
wandering  look  in  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  not  changed,  and 
there  was  no  feverishness,  but  her  mind  appeared  to  be  failing 
her,  a  fixed  idea  seemed  to  be  destroying  her  reason.  She  had 
reached  the  last  phase ;  her  brain,  gradually  wrought  upon 
by  a  single  absorbing  passion,  had  now  become  a  prey  to 
insanity. 

That  morning,  before  Doctor  Cazenove's  arrival,  they  had 
a  terrible  time.  Madame  Chanteau  would  not  even  let  her 
niece  come  near  her. 

'  Do  let  me  nurse  you,  I  beg  you  ! '  Pauline  said.  '  Just  let 
me  raise  you  a  little,  as  you  are  lying  so  uncomfortably." 

But  her  aunt  began  to  struggle  as  though  they  were  trying 
to  suffocate  her. 

'  No,  no !  You  have  got  a  pair  of  scissors  there  !  Ah  ! 
you  are  sticking  them  into  me  1  I  can  feel  them !  I  can  feel 
them !  I'm  bleeding  all  over  ! ' 

The  heart-broken  girl  was  obliged  to  keep  at  a  distance 
from  her  aunt.  She  was  quite  overcome  with  fatigue  and 
distress,  breaking  down  with  her  useless  kindly  endeavours. 
She  was  obliged  to  put  up  with  insults  and  accusations  which 
made  her  burst  into  tears  before  she  could  induce  her  aunt 
to  accept  the  slightest  service  from  her.  Sometimes  all 
her  efforts  were  in  vain,  and  she  fell  weeping  upon  a  chair, 
despairing  of  ever  winning  back  again  that  affection  of  former 
days,  which  was  now  replaced  by  insane  animosity.  Still  she 
would  become  all  resignation  once  more,  and  strive  to  find 
some  way  of  making  her  assistance  acceptable  by  manifesting 
even  greater  care  and  tenderness.  That  morning,  however, 
her  persistent  entreaties  ended  by  provoking  a  paroxysm 
which  long  left  her  trembling. 

'  Aunt,'  she  said,  as  she  was  preparing  a  dose  of  medicine, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  167 

'it's  time  for  you  to  take  your  draught.     The  Doctor,  you 
know,  particularly  said  that  you  were  to  take  it  regularly.' 

Madame  Chanteau  insisted  upon  seeing  the  bottle,  and 
then  smelt  its  contents. 

'  Is  it  the  same  as  I  had  yesterday  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  aunt.' 

'  Then  I  won't  have  any  of  it ! ' 

However,  by  much  affectionate  wheedling  and  entreaties, 
her  niece  prevailed  on  her  to  take  just  one  spoonful.  The  sick 
woman's  face  wore  an  expression  of  deep  suspicion,  and  no 
sooner  was  the  spoonful  of  physic  in  her  mouth  than  she  spat 
it  out  again  upon  the  floor,  torn  by  a  violent  fit  of  coughing, 
and  screaming  out  between  her  hiccoughs  : 

1  It's  vitriol !     It  is  burning  me  !  ' 

Amidst  this  supreme  paroxysm  her  hatred  and  terror  of 
Pauline,  which  had  gradually  increased  ever  since  the  day 
when  she  had  first  abstracted  a  twenty-franc  piece  of  the 
other's  money,  now  found  vent  in  a  flood  of  wild  words,  to 
which  the  poor  girl  listened,  quite  thunderstruck,  unable  to 
say  a  single  syllable  in  her  defence. 

'  Ah  !  you  fancied  I  shouldn't  detect  it !  You  put  verdigris 
and  vitriol  into  everything  !  It's  that  which  is  killing  me  ! 
There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  and  I  should  have 
been  able  to  get  up  this  morning  if  you  hadn't  mixed  some 
verdigris  with  my  broth  yesterday  evening.  Yes,  you  are  tired 
of  me,  and  want  to  get  me  buried  and  done  with.  But  I'm 
very  tough,  and  it  is  I  who  will  bury  you  yet.' 

Her  speech  became  thicker,  she  choked,  and  her  lips 
turned  so  black  that  an  immediate  catastrophe  seemed 
probable. 

'  Oh !  aunt,  aunt !  '  cried  Pauline,  overcome  with  terror, 
'  you  are  making  yourself  so  much  worse  by  going  on  like 
this  ! ' 

'  Well,  that's  what  you  want,  I'm  sure  I  Oh  !  I  know  you. 
You  have  been  planning  it  for  a  long  time ;  ever  since  you 
have  been  here  your  only  thought  has  been  how  to  kill  us  off 
and  get  hold  of  our  money.  You  want  to  have  the  house  for 
your  own,  and  I  am  in  your  way.  Ah  !  hussy,  I  ought  to 
have  choked  you  the  first  day  you  came  here  !  I  hate  you  ! 
I  hate  you  ! ' 

Pauline  stood  there  motionless,  weeping  in  silence.  Only 
one  word  rose  to  her  lips,  as  though  in  involuntary  protest 
against  her  aunt's  accusations.  '  Oh  God  !  God  i ' 


1 68  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

But  Madame  Chanteau  was  completely  exhausted  by  the 
violence  of  her  fury,  and  her  mad  outburst  gave  place  to  a 
childish  terror.  She  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  crying  : 

'  Don't  come  near  me  !  Don't  touch  me !  If  you  do  I 
shall  scream  out  for  help  1  No,  no  1  I  won't  drink  it ;  it's 
poison ! ' 

She  pulled  the  bed-clothes  over  her  with  her  twitching 
hands,  buried  her  head  amongst  the  pillows,  and  kept  her 
mouth  tightly  closed.  When  her  niece,  who  was  terribly 
alarmed,  came  to  her  bedside  to  try  to  calm  her,  she  broke 
out  into  frightful  screams. 

'  Aunt  dear,  be  reasonable.  I  won't  make  you  take  any 
against  your  will.' 

'  Yes,  you  will !  You've  got  the  bottle !  Oh !  I'm 
terrified  1  I'm  terrified  ! ' 

She  was  almost  at  the  last  gasp ;  her  head  had  got  too  low, 
and  purple  blotches  appeared  upon  her  face.  Pauline,  imagin- 
ing that  her  aunt  was  dying,  rang  the  bell  for  Veronique  ;  and 
it  was  as  much  as  the  two  of  them  could  do  to  raise  her  up 
and  lay  her  properly  on  her  pillows. 

Then  Pauline's  own  personal  sufferings  and  heartaches 
disappeared  amidst  her  intense  grief.  She  thought  no  more 
about  the  last  wound  which  her  heart  had  received ;  all 
her  passion  and  jealousy  vanished  in  presence  of  that  great 
wretchedness.  Every  other  feeling  became  lost  in  one  of  deep 
pity,  and  she  would  have  gladly  endured  injustice  and  insult 
and  have  sacrificed  herself  still  more  if  by  so  doing  she  could 
only  have  given  comfort  and  consolation  to  the  others.  She 
set  herself  bravely  to  bear  the  principal  share  of  life's  woes ; 
and  from  that  moment  she  never  once  gave  way,  but  mani- 
fested beside  her  aunt's  death-bed  all  the  quiet  resignation 
which  she  had  shown  when  threatened  by  death  herself.  She 
was  always  ready ;  she  never  recoiled  from  anything.  Even 
her  old  gentle  affection  came  back  to  her ;  she  forgave  her 
aunt  for  all  her  mad  violence  during  her  paroxysms,  and  wept 
with  pity  at  finding  that  she  had  gradually  become  insane  ; 
forcing  herself  to  think  of  her  as  she  had  been  in  earlier 
years,  loving  her  as  she  had  done  on  that  stormy  evening  when 
she  had  first  come  with  her  to  Bonneville. 

That  day  Doctor  Cazenove  did  not  call  till  after  luncheon. 
An  accident  had  detained  him  at  Verchemont ;  a  farmer  there 
had  broken  his  arm,  and  the  Doctor  had  stayed  to  set  it. 
After  seeing  Madame  Chanteau  he  came  down  into  the 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  169 

kitchen,  and  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  bis  alarm.  Lazare 
was  sitting  there  by  the  fire,  in  that  feverish  idleness  which 
preyed  upon  him. 

'  There  is  no  more  hope,  is  there  ? '  he  asked.  '  I  was 
reading  Bouillaud's  Treatise  on  the  Diseases  of  the  Heart 
again  last  night.' 

Pauline,  who  had  come  downstairs  with  the  Doctor,  once 
more  gave  him  an  entreating  look,  which  prompted  him  to 
interrupt  the  young  man  in  his  usual  brusque  fashion. 
Whenever  an  illness  turned  out  badly,  he  always  showed  a 
little  anger. 

1  Ah  !  the  heart,  my  good  fellow,  the  heart  seems  to  be  the 
only  idea  you  have  got !  One  can't  be  certain  of  anything. 
For  my  own  part,  I  believe  it's  rather  the  liver  that  is  affected. 
But,  of  course,  when  the  machine  gets  out  of  order,  every- 
thing in  turn  is  more  or  less  affected — the  lungs,  the  stomach, 
and  the  heart  itself.  Instead  of  reading  Bouillaud  last  night, 
which  has  only  upset  you,  you  would  have  done  much  better 
to  go  to  sleep.' 

This  dictum  of  the  Doctor's  was  like  an  order  given  to  the 
house.  In  Lazare's  presence  it  was  always  said  that  his  mother 
was  dying  from  a  diseased  liver;  but  he  refused  to  believe 
it,  and  spent  his  sleepless  hours  in  turning  over  the  pages  of 
his  old  books.  He  grew  quite  confused  over  the  different 
symptoms,  and  the  remark  made  by  the  Doctor  that  the  various 
organs  of  the  human  body  became  successively  deranged  only 
served  to  increase  his  alarm. 

'Well,'  he  said  with  difficulty,  'how  long,  then,  do  you 
think  she  will  last  ? ' 

Cazenove  made  a  gesture  of  doubt. 

'  A  fortnight ;  perhaps  a  month.  You  had  better  not 
question  me,  for  I  might  make  a  mistake,  and  then  you  would 
be  right  in  saying  that  we  know  nothing  and  can  do  nothing. 
But  the  progress  that  the  disease  has  made  since  yesterday  is 
terrible.' 

Veronique,  who  was  washing  some  glasses,  looked  at  him 
in  alarm.  Could  it  really  be  true,  then,  that  Madame  was 
so  very  ill  and  was  going  to  die  ?  Until  then  she  had 
been  unable  to  believe  there  was  any  actual  danger,  and  had 
gone  about  her  work  muttering  to  herself  of  people  who 
tried  to  frighten  folks  out  of  pure  malice.  But  she  now 
seemed  stupefied,  and  when  Pauline  told  her  to  go  upstairs 
to  Madame  Chanteau,  that  there  might  be  some  one  with 


i7o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

her,  she  wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron  and  left  the  kitchen, 
ejaculating : 

'  Oh,  well,  in  that  case — in  that  case ' 

'We  must  not  forget  my  uncle,  Doctor,'  said  Pauline,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  only  one  who  retained  self-possession. 
'  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  warn  him  ?  Will  you  see  him 
before  you  go  ? ' 

Just  at  that  moment  Abbe"  Horteur  came  in.  He  had  only 
heard  that  morning  of  what  he  called  '  Madame  Chanteau's 
indisposition.'  When  he  learned  how  seriously  ill  she  really 
was,  an  expression  of  genuine  sorrow  passed  over  his  tanned 
face,  so  cheerful  a  moment  before  as  he  came  in  from  the 
fresh  air.  The  poor  lady !  Could  it  be  possible  ?  She  who 
had  seemed  so  well  and  strong  only  three  days  ago ! 

Then  after  a  moment's  silence  he  asked  if  he  could  see 
her ;  at  the  same  time  glancing  anxiously  at  Lazare,  whom 
he  knew  to  be  little  given  to  religion.  On  that  account  he 
seemed  to  anticipate  a  refusal.  But  the  young  man,  who 
was  quite  broken  down,  did  not  appear  to  have  noticed  the 
priest's  question,  and  it  was  Pauline  who  answered  it. 

'  No,  not  to-day,  your  reverence.  She  does  not  know  the 
danger  she  is  in,  and  your  presence  might  have  an  alarming 
effect  upon  her.  We  will  see  to-morrow.' 

'  Very  well,'  the  priest  at  once  replied  ;  '  there  is  no 
great  urgency,  I  hope.  But  we  must  all  do  our  duty, 
you  know.  And  as  the  Doctor  here  refuses  to  believe  in 
God ' 

For  the  last  moment  or  two  the  Doctor  had  been  gazing 
earnestly  at  the  table,  absorbed  in  thought,  lost  in  a  maze 
of  doubt,  as  was  always  the  case  when  he  could  not  overcome 
illness.  He  had  just  caught  the  Abbe's  last  words,  however, 
and  he  interrupted  him,  saying : 

'  Who  told  you  that  I  didn't  believe  in  God  ?  God  is  not 
an  impossibility ;  one  sees  very  strange  things  !  And,  after 
all,  who  can  be  sure  ? ' 

Then  he  shook  his  head  and  roused  himself  from  his 
reverie. 

'  Stay !  '  he  went  on,  '  you  shall  come  with  me  and  shake 
hands  with  our  good  friend  Monsieur  Chanteau.  He  will 
soon  stand  in  need  of  all  the  courage  he  can  muster.' 

'  If  you  think  it  will  cheer  him  at  all,'  the  priest  obligingly 
replied,  'I  shall  be  glad  to  stay  and  play  a  few  games  of 
draughts  with  him.' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  171 

Then  they  both  went  off  to  the  dining-room,  while  Pauline 
hastened  back  to  her  aunt.  Lazare,  when  he  was  left  alone, 
rose  and  hesitated  for  a  moment  as  to  whether  he  also  should 
not  go  upstairs ;  then  he  went  to  the  dining-room  door  to 
listen  to  his  father's  voice,  without  mustering  enough  courage 
to  enter ;  and  finally  he  came  back  to  the  kitchen  again,  and 
sank  down  upon  the  same  chair  as  before,  surrendering 
himself  to  his  despair. 

The  priest  and  the  Doctor  had  found  Chanteau  rolling  a 
paper  ball  across  the  table — a  ball  formed  of  a  prospectus 
discovered  inside  a  newspaper.  Minouche,  who  was  lying 
near,  looked  on  with  her  green  eyes.  She  appeared  to  disdain 
such  an  elementary  plaything,  for  she  had  her  paws  stowed 
away  beneath  her,  never  deigning  to  strike  out  at  it  with  her 
claws,  though  it  had  rolled  close  to  her  nose. 

'  Hallo  !  is  it  you  ?  '  cried  Chanteau.  '  It  is  very  good  of 
you  to  come  and  see  me.  I'm  very  dull — all  by  myself.  Well, 
Doctor,  she's  getting  on  all  right,  I  hope  ?  Oh !  I  don't  feel 
at  all  uneasy  about  her ;  she's  by  far  the  strongest  of  all  of  us  ; 
she  will  see  us  all  buried.' 

It  occurred  to  the  Doctor  that  this  would  be  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  informing  Chanteau  of  the  real  state  of  affairs. 

'Well,  certainly,  there's  nothing  very  alarming  in  her 
condition,  but  she  seems  to  me  to  be  very  weak.' 

1  Ah  !  Doctor,'  Chanteau  exclaimed,  'you  don't  know  her. 
She  has  an  incredible  fund  of  strength ;  you  will  see  her  on 
her  feet  again  in  a  day  or  two  I ' 

In  his  complete  belief  in  his  wife's  vigorous  constitution, 
he  quite  failed  to  understand  the  Doctor's  hints  ;  and  the  latter, 
not  wishing  to  tell  him  the  dreadful  truth  in  plain  words, 
could  say  no  more.  Besides,  he  thought  that  it  would  be  as 
well  to  wait  a  little  longer ;  for  just  then  Chanteau  was  free 
from  pain,  his  gout  only  troubling  him  in  his  legs,  though 
these  were  sufficiently  incapacitated  to  make  it  necessary  to 
wheel  him  to  bed  in  his  chair. 

'  If  it  were  not  for  these  wretched  legs  of  mine,'  he  said, 
'  I  would  go  upstairs  and  see  her  myself.' 

'  Resign  yourself,  my  friend,'  said  Abbe"  Horteur,  who  in 
his  turn  now  tried  to  carry  out  his  office  of  consoler.  '  We 
each  have  our  own  cross  to  bear,  and  we  are  all  in  the  hands 
of  God ' 

But  he  did  not  fail  to  notice  that  these  words,  so  far  from 
consoling  Chanteau,  only  appeared  to  bore  and  even  disquiet 


172  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

him,  so  he  cut  his  exhortation  short  and  substituted  for  it 
something  more  efficacious. 

'  Would  you  like  to  have  a  game  at  draughts  ?  It  will  do 
you  good.' 

He  went  in  person  to  take  the  draught-board  from  the  cup- 
board. Chanteau  was  delighted,  and  shook  hands  with  the 
Doctor,  who  then  took  his  departure.  The  two  others  were 
soon  deep  in  their  game,  quite  forgetful  of  all  else  in  the  world, 
when  all  at  once  Minouche,  who  had  probably  got  tired  of 
seeing  the  paper  ball  under  her  nose,  sprang  forward,  sent  it 
spinning  away,  and  bounded  in  wild  antics  after  it  all  round 
the  room. 

'  What  a  capricious  creature ! '  cried  Chanteau,  put  out  in 
his  play.  '  She  wouldn't  have  a  game  with  me  on  any  account 
a  little  while  ago,  and  now  she  prevents  one  from  thinking  by 
playing  all  by  herself.' 

'  Never  mind  her,'  said  the  priest  mildly :  '  cats  have  their 
own  way  of  amusing  themselves.' 

Meantime,  passing  through  the  kitchen,  Doctor  Cazenove 
had  experienced  sudden  emotion  on  seeing  Lazare  still 
sorrowfully  brooding  on  the  same  chair ;  and  he  caught  the 
young  man  in  his  big  arms  and  kissed  him  paternally  without 
saying  a  word.  Just  at  that  moment  Ve"ronique  came  down- 
stairs, driving  Matthew  before  her.  The  dog  was  perpetually 
prowling  about  the  staircase,  making  a  sort  of  hissing  sound, 
which  somewhat  resembled  the  plaint  of  a  bird ;  and,  when- 
ever he  found  the  door  of  the  sick  woman's  room  open,  he 
went  in  and  there  vented  those  sharp  notes  of  his,  which 
were  ear-piercing  in  their  persistency. 

'  Get  away  with  you,  do  1  Be  off ! '  the  servant  cried. 
'  That  noise  of  yours  isn't  likely  to  do  her  any  good.' 

And  as  she  caught  sight  of  Lazare  she  added  :  '  Take  him 
for  a  walk  somewhere.  He  will  be  out  of  our  way,  and  it  will 
do  you  good  too.' 

It  was  really  an  order  of  Pauline's  that  Ve"ronique  was 
conveying.  The  girl  had  told  her  to  get  Lazare  to  go  out  and 
take  some  long  walks.  But  he  refused  to  go  ;  it  even  seemed 
to  require  an  effort  on  his  part  to  get  upon  his  feet.  How- 
ever, the  dog  came  and  stood  before  him,  and  began  wailing 
again. 

'  That  poor  Matthew  isn't  as  young  as  he  was  once,'  said 
the  Doctor,  who  was  watching  him. 

'  No  indeed  1  '  said  V6ronique.     '  He  is  fourteen  years  old 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  173 

now,  but  that  doesn't  prevent  him  from  being  as  wild  as  ever 
after  mice.  Look  how  he  has  rubbed  the  skin  off  his  nose, 
and  how  red  his  eyes  are  1  He  scented  a  mouse  under  the 
grate  last  night,  and  never  closed  his  eyes  afterwards ;  he 
turned  my  kitchen  upside  down,  poking  about  everywhere. 
And  such  a  great  big  dog,  too,  to  worry  about  such  tiny 
creatures,  it's  quite  ridiculous !  But  it  isn't  only  mice  that  he 
runs  after.  Anything  that's  little  or  crawls,  newly  hatched 
chickens  or  Minouche's  kittens,  anything  of  that  sort,  excites 
him  to  such  a  point  that  he  even  forgets  to  eat  and  drink. 
Just  now  I'm  sure  he  scents  something  out  of  the  common  in 
the  house ' 

She  checked  herself  as  she  caught  sight  of  Lazare's  eyes 
filling  with  tears. 

'  Go  out  for  a  walk,  my  lad,'  the  Doctor  said  to  him. 
'  You  can't  be  of  any  use  here,  and  it  will  do  you  good  to  go 
out  a  little.' 

The  young  man  at  last  rose  painfully  to  his  feet.  '  Well, 
we'll  go,'  he  said.  '  Come  along,  my  poor  old  Matthew.' 

When  he  had  accompanied  the  Doctor  to  his  gig,  he  set  off 
along  the  cliffs  with  the  dog.  From  time  to  time  he  had  to 
stop  and  wait  for  Matthew,  for  the  dog  was  really  ageing 
quickly.  His  hindquarters  were  becoming  paralysed,  and  his 
heavy  paws  sounded  like  slippers  as  he  dragged  them  along. 
He  was  now  unable  to  go  scooping  out  holes  in  the  kitchen- 
garden,  and  quickly  rolled  over  with  dizziness  when  he  set 
himself  spinning  after  his  tail.  He  had  fits  of  coughing,  too, 
whenever  he  plunged  into  the  water,  and  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  walk  he  wanted  to  He  down  and  snore.  He 
trudged  along  the  beach  just  in  front  of  his  master's  legs. 

Lazare  stood  for  a  moment  watching  a  fishing-smack 
coming  from  Port-au-Bessin,  with  its  sail  skimming  over  the 
sea  like  the  wing  of  a  gull.  Then  he  went  his  way.  The  thought 
that  his  mother  was  dying  kept  on  thrilling  him  painfully  ; 
if  ever  it  left  him  for  a  moment,  it  was  only  to  come  back 
and  rack  him  more  violently  than  before.  And  it  brought 
him  perpetual  surprise  ;  it  was  an  idea  to  which  he  could  not 
grow  reconciled,  and  which  prevented  him  from  thinking 
of  anything  else.  If  at  times  it  lost  distinctness  he  felt  the 
vague  oppression  of  a  nightmare,  in  which  he  remained 
conscious  of  some  great  impending  misfortune.  Everything 
around  him  then  seemed  to  disappear,  and  when  he  again 
beheld  the  sands  and  seaweed,  the  distant  sea  and  far-reaching 


i74  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

horizon,  he  started  as  if  they  were  all  new  and  strange  to  him. 
Could  they  be  the  objects  that  were  so  familiar  to  his  eyes  ? 
Everything  seemed  to  have  changed  ;  never  before  had  he  thus 
been  struck  by  varying  forms  and  hues.  His  mother  was 
dying!  And  he  walked  on  and  on,  trying  to  escape  from 
that  buzzing  refrain  which  was  ever  sounding  in  his  ears. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  deep  sigh  behind  him.  He  turned 
and  saw  the  dog  completely  exhausted,  with  his  tongue  hang- 
ing from  his  mouth. 

'  Ah  !  my  poor  old  Matthew,'  he  said  to  him,  '  you  can't 
get  on  any  farther.  Well,  we'll  go  back  again.  However  far 
I  may  go,  I  shan't  rid  myself  of  my  thoughts.' 

That  evening  they  hurried  over  dinner.  Lazare,  who 
could  only  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls  of  bread,  hastened  away 
upstairs  to  his  own  room,  excusing  himself  to  his  father  by 
alleging  some  pressing  work.  When  he  reached  the  first 
floor,  he  went  into  his  mother's  room,  where  he  forced  him- 
self to  sit  for  some  five  minutes  before  kissing  her  and  wish- 
ing her  good-night.  She  seemed  to  be  forgetting  all  about 
him,  and  never  expressed  the  least  anxiety  as  to  what  he  might 
be  doing  during  the  day.  When  he  bent  over  her,  she  offered 
him  her  cheek  and  seemed  to  consider  his  hasty  good-night 
quite  natural,  absorbed  as  she  was  in  the  instinctive  egotism 
which  attends  the  approach  of  death.  And  Pauline  took  care 
to  cut  his  visit  as  short  as  possible  by  inventing  an  excuse 
for  sending  him  out  of  the  room. 

But  in  his  own  big  room  on  the  second  floor  his  mental 
torment  increased.  It  was  in  the  night,  the  long  weary  night, 
that  his  anguish  weighed  heaviest  upon  him.  He  took  up  a 
supply  of  candles,  so  that  he  might  never  be  without  a  light, 
and  he  kept  them  burning,  one  after  another,  till  morning, 
terror-stricken  by  the  thought  of  darkness.  When  he  got  into 
bed  he  tried  in  vain  to  read.  His  old  medical  treatises  were 
the  only  books  that  had  now  any  interest  for  him  ;  but  they 
filled  him  with  fear,  and  he  ended  by  throwing  them  away. 
Then  he  remained  lying  upon  his  back,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open,  solely  conscious  of  the  fact  that  close  to  him,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  there  was  an  awful  presence  which 
weighed  upon  him  and  suffocated  him.  His  dying  mother's 
panting  breath  was  for  ever  in  his  ears,  that  panting  breath 
which  had  become  so  loud  that  for  the  last  two  days  he  had 
heard  it  whenever  he  climbed  the  staircase,  which  he  never 
ascended  now  without  hastening  his  steps. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  175 

The  whole  house  seemed  full  of  that  plaint,  which  thrilled 
him  as  he  lay  in  bed ;  the  occasional  intervals  of  quiet  inspir- 
ing him  with  such  alarm  that  he  would  run  barefooted  to  the 
landing  and  lean  over  the  banisters  to  listen.  Pauline  and 
Veronique,  who  kept  watch  together  below,  left  the  door  of 
the  room  open  for  the  sake  of  ventilation,  and  Lazare  could 
see  the  pale  patch  of  sleepy  light  which  the  night  lamp  threw 
upon  the  tiled  floor,  and  could  again  hear  his  mother's  heavy 
panting,  which  became  louder  and  more  prolonged  in  the 
darkness.  When  he  went  back  to  bed  he,  too,  left  his  door 
open,  and  so  intently  did  he  listen  to  his  mother's  breathing 
that  even  in  the  snatches  of  sleep  into  which  he  fell  towards 
morning  he  was  still  pursued  by  it.  His  personal  horror  of 
death  had  vanished  again  as  at  the  time  of  his  cousin's  illness. 
His  mother  was  going  to  die  ;  everything  was  going  to  die ! 
He  abandoned  himself  to  the  contemplation  of  that  collapse 
of  life  without  any  other  feeling  than  one  of  exasperation  at 
his  powerlessness  to  prevent  it. 

The  next  morning  saw  the  commencement  of  Madame 
Chanteau's  death  agony,  a  loquacious  agony  which  lasted  for 
twenty-four  hours.  She  was  calm,  the  dread  of  poison  no 
longer  terrified  her,  but  she  rambled  on  rapidly  in  a  clear 
voice,  without  raising  her  head  from  her  pillow.  What  she 
said  was  in  no  way  conversation  ;  she  did  not  address  herself 
to  anyone  ;  it  was  as  though,  in  the  general  derangement  of 
her  faculties,  her  brain  hastened  to  finish  its  work  like  a 
clock  running  down.  That  flood  of  rapid  words  seemed  to  be 
indeed  the  last  tick-tack  of  the  unwound  chain  of  her  mind. 
The  events  of  her  past  life  defiled  before  her ;  but  she  never 
said  a  word  about  the  present,  about  her  husband,  or  her  son, 
or  her  niece,  or  her  home  at  Bonneville,  where,  with  her 
ambitious  nature,  she  had  suffered  for  ten  long  years.  She 
was  still  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vigniere,  giving  music-lessons  in 
the  most  distinguished  families  in  Caen,  and  she  familiarly 
spoke  of  people  whom  neither  Pauline  nor  Veronique  had  ever 
heard  of.  She  broke  out  into  long  rambling  stories,  whose 
details  were  incomprehensible  even  to  the  servant  who  had 
grown  old  in  her  service.  She  seemed  to  be  emptying  her  brain 
of  the  recollections  of  her  youth  before  she  died  ;  just  as  one 
may  turn  the  faded  letters  of  former  days  out  of  a  desk  in 
which  they  have  long  been  lying. 

In  spite  of  her  courage,  Pauline  could  not  help  shuddering 
slightly  as  all  those  little  involuntary  confessions  were  poured 


176  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

out  in  the  very  throes  of  death.  It  was  no  longer  difficult, 
panting  breathing  that  filled  the  room,  but  a  weird,  rambling 
babble,  of  which  Lazare  caught  fragments  as  he  passed  the 
door.  But,  however  much  he  might  turn  them  over  in  his 
mind,  he  was  unable  to  understand  them,  and  grew  full  of 
alarm,  as  though  his  mother  were  already  speaking  from  the 
other  side  of  the  grave  amidst  invisible  beings  to  whom  she 
was  relating  those  strange  stories. 

When  Doctor  Cazenove  arrived  he  found  Chanteau  and 
Abb6  Horteur  playing  draughts  in  the  dining-room.  From 
all  appearances,  they  might  still  have  been  engaged  on  the 
game  which  they  had  commenced  the  day  before,  and  have 
never  stirred  from  the  room  since  the  Doctor's  previous  visit. 
Minouche  sat  near  them,  intently  studying  the  draught-board. 
The  priest  had  arrived  at  an  early  hour  to  resume  his  duties 
as  consoler.  Pauline  no  longer  felt  that  his  proposed  visit  to 
her  aunt  would  be  attended  with  inconvenience ;  and  so,  when 
the  Doctor  went  upstairs  to  see  her,  the  priest  accompanied 
him  to  the  sick  woman's  bedside,  presenting  himself  simply  as 
a  friend  anxious  to  know  how  she  was  getting  on. 

Madame  Chanteau  recognised  them  both,  and,  having  been 
raised  up  on  her  pillows,  she  smilingly  welcomed  them  with 
all  the  airs  of  a  Caen  lady  holding  a  reception.  The  dear 
Doctor  was  surely  quite  satisfied  with  her,  she  said ;  she 
would  soon  be  able  to  leave  her  bed.  Then  she  questioned 
the  Abbe  about  his  own  health.  The  latter,  who  had  come 
upstairs  with  the  intention  of  fulfilling  his  priestly  duties, 
was  so  overcome  by  the  dying  woman's  rambling  chatter  that 
he  could  not  open  his  mouth  ;  and,  besides,  Pauline,  who  was 
in  the  room,  would  have  stopped  him  if  he  had  mentioned 
certain  subjects.  The  girl  had  sufficient  control  over  herself 
to  feign  confident  cheerfulness.  When  the  two  men  went 
away,  she  accompanied  them  to  the  landing,  where  the  Doctor, 
in  low  tones,  gave  her  instructions  as  to  what  she  should  do 
at  the  last  moment.  Such  words  as  '  rapid  decomposition ' 
and  '  carbolic  acid '  were  frequently  mentioned,  while  the 
ceaseless  chatter  from  the  dying  woman  still  buzzed  through 
the  open  doorway. 

'  You  think,  then,  that  she  will  see  the  day  out  ? '  the 
girl  inquired. 

'  Yes,  I  feel  sure  that  she  will  live  till  to-morrow,'  Cazenove 
answered.  '  But  don't  lift  her  up  any  more,  or  she  might  die 
in  your  arms.  I  shall  come  again  this  evening.' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  177 

It  waa  settled  that  Abbe  Horteur  should  remain  with 
Chanteau  and  gradually  prepare  him  for  the  fatal  issue. 
Ve"ronique  stood  listening  near  the  door  while  this  was  being 
agreed  upon,  and  her  face  assumed  a  scared  expression. 
Ever  since  the  probability  of  her  mistress's  death  had  become 
clear  to  her  she  had  scarcely  opened  her  lips,  but  sought  to 
render  all  possible  service  with  the  silent  devotion  of  a  faith- 
ful animal.  But  the  conversation  was  hushed,  for  Lazare, 
wandering  over  the  house,  now  came  up  the  staircase  ;  he  had 
lacked  the  courage  to  be  present  at  the  Doctor's  visit  and  to 
inquire  the  truth  as  to  his  mother's  danger.  However,  the 
mournful  silence  with  which  he  was  greeted  forced  the 
knowledge  upon  him  in  spite  of  himself,  and  he  turned  very 
pale. 

'  My  dear  boy,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  you  had  better  come 
along  with  me.  I  will  give  you  some  lunch  and  bring  you 
back  with  me  in  the  evening.' 

The  young  man  turned  yet  more  pallid  and  replied  :  '  No, 
thank  you  ;  I  would  rather  not  go  away.' 

From  that  moment  Lazare  waited,  feeling  a  terrible  pressure 
upon  his  breast,  as  if  an  iron  band  were  drawn  tightly  round 
him.  The  day  seemed  as  though  it  would  never  end,  and 
yet  it  passed  away  without  any  consciousness  on  his  part  of 
how  the  hours  went  by.  He  had  no  recollection  of  how  he 
had  spent  them,  wandering  restlessly  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
and  gazing  out  upon  the  distant  sea,  the  sight  of  whose 
ceaseless  rocking  dazed  him  yet  more.  At  certain  momenta 
the  irresistible  flight  of  the  minutes  seemed  to  be  materialised, 
and  to  become  the  onslaught  of  a  mass  of  granite  driving 
everything  into  the  abyss  of  nothingness.  Then  he  grew 
exasperated  and  longed  for  the  end,  in  order  that  he  might  be 
released  from  the  strain  of  fchat  terrible  waiting.  About  four 
o'clock,  as  he  was  once  more  creeping  up  to  his  own  room, 
he  turned  suddenly  aside  and  entered  his  mother's  chamber. 
He  felt  a  desire  to  see  her  and  kiss  her  once  again.  But,  as 
he  bent  over  her,  she  went  on  pouring  out  her  incoherent 
talk,  and  did  not  even  turn  her  cheek  towards  him  in  that 
weary  manner  with  which  she  had  received  him  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  her  illness.  Perhaps  she  did  not  see  him, 
he  thought ;  indeed,  it  was  no  longer  his  mother  who  lay  there 
with  that  livid  face  and  lips  already  blackened. 

'  Go  away,'  Pauline  said  to  him  gently.  '  Go  out  for  a 
little  while.  I  assure  you  that  the  hour  has  not  yet  come.' 

N 


i78  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

And  then,  instead  of  going  up  to  his  room,  Lazare 
rushed  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house,  ever  with  the  sight 
of  that  woeful  face,  which  he  could  no  longer  recognise, 
before  him.  He  told  himself  that  his  cousin  had  lied,  that 
the  hour  was  really  at  hand ;  but  then  he  was  stifling,  and 
needed  space  and  air,  and  so  he  rushed  on  like  a  madman. 
The  thought  that  he  would  never,  never  again  see  his  mother 
tortured  him  terribly.  But  he  fancied  he  heard  some  one 
running  after  him,  and  when  he  turned  and  saw  Matthew, 
who  was  trying  to  overtake  him  at  a  heavy  run,  he  flew 
without  cause  into  a  violent  passion,  and  picked  up  stones  and 
hurled  them  at  the  dog,  storming  at  him  the  while,  to  drive 
him  back  to  the  house.  Matthew,  amazed  at  this  reception, 
trotted  back  some  distance,  and  then  turned  and  gazed  at  his 
master  with  his  gentle  eyes,  in  which  tears  seemed  to  glisten. 
He  persisted  in  following  Lazare  from  a  distance,  as  though 
to  keep  watch  over  his  despair,  and  the  young  man  found  it 
impossible  to  drive  him  away.  But  the  immensity  of  the  sea 
had  an  irritating  effect  upon  Lazare,  and  he  fled  into  the 
fields  and  wandered  about  them,  looking  for  out-of-the-way 
corners  where  he  could  feel  alone  and  concealed.  He  prowled 
up  and  down  till  night  fell,  tramping  over  ploughed  land, 
breaking  his  way  through  hedges.  At  last,  worn  out,  he  was 
returning  homewards,  when  he  beheld  a  sight  which  thrilled 
him  with  superstitious  terror.  At  the  edge  of  a  lonely  road 
there  stood  a  lofty  poplar,  black  and  solitary,  over  which  the 
rising  moon  showed  like  a  yellow  flame ;  and  the  tree  suggested 
a  gigantic  taper  burning  in  the  dusk  at  the  bedside  of  some 
giantess  lying  out  there  across  the  open  country. 

'  Come,  Matthew  I  Come  ! '  he  cried  in  a  choking  voice. 
Let  us  get  on ! ' 

He  reached  the  house  running,  as  he  had  left  it.  The  dog 
had  ventured  to  draw  near,  and  licked  his  hands. 

Although  the  night  had  now  fallen,  there  was  no  light  in 
the  kitchen.  It  was  empty  and  dark,  with  only  the  glow 
of  the  charcoal  embers  reddening  the  ceiling.  The  gloom 
weighed  upon  Lazare,  and  he  lacked  the  courage  to  go  further. 
Overcome  with  fear  and  emotion,  he  remained  standing  amidst 
the  litter  of  pots  and  dusters,  and  strained  his  ears  to  catch 
the  sounds  with  which  the  house  was  quivering.  On  one 
side  he  heard  a  slight  cough ;  it  came  from  his  father,  to 
whom  Abbe"  Horteur  was  talking  in  low  continuous  tones. 
But  what  most  frightened  the  young  man  was  the  sound  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  179 

hushed  voices  and  hasty  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  muffled 
noise  on  the  upper  floor,  which  he  could  not  account  for, 
though  it  suggested  something  being  hurriedly  accomplished 
with  as  little  noise  as  possible.  He  did  not  dare  to  go  and 
see  what  it  meant.  Could  it  be  all  was  over  ?  He  was  still 
standing  there  perfectly  motionless,  without  courage  enough 
to  go  and  inquire  the  truth,  when  he  saw  Veronique  come 
down.  She  rushed  into  tfee  kitchen,  lighted  a  candle,  and 
carried  it  away  with  her  so  hurriedly  that  she  neither  spoke 
to  the  young  man  nor  looked  at  him.  The  kitchen,  after 
being  lighted  for  a  moment,  relapsed  into  darkness.  Up 
above  the  stir  was  ceasing.  Once  more  did  the  servant  come 
down,  this  time  to  get  a  bowl,  and  again  she  displayed  silent, 
desperate  haste.  Lazare  no  longer  felt  any  doubt.  All  must 
be  over.  Then,  overcome,  he  sank  down  upon  the  edge  of 
the  table,  and  waited  amidst  that  darkness,  without  knowing 
for  what  he  was  waiting,  his  ears  buzzing  the  while  in  the 
deep  silence  that  had  just  fallen. 

Upstairs,  for  two  hours  past,  Madame  Chanteau's  last 
agony — an  agony  so  awful  that  it  thrilled  Pauline  and 
Veronique  with  horror — had  been  following  its  course.  Her 
dread  of  poison  having  reappeared,  she  raised  herself  up  in 
bed,  still  wildly  rambling  on,  gradually  mastered  by  furious 
delirium.  She  wished  to  jump  out  of  bed  and  escape  from 
the  house,  where  someone  wanted  to  kill  her  ;  and  it  was  all 
that  the  young  girl  and  the  servant  could  do  to  restrain  her. 

1  Let  me  go  1  I  shall  be  murdered !  I  must  escape  at 
once,  at  once !  ' 

Veronique  tried  to  calm  her. 

'  Oh !  Madame,  don't  you  see  us  ?  You  can't  suppose 
that  we  should  let  any  harm  come  to  you.' 

The  dying  woman,  exhausted  by  her  violent  struggles,  lay 
for  a  moment  panting.  Her  dim  eyes  wandered  anxiously 
round  the  room,  as  though  she  were  looking  for  something. 
Then  she  resumed : 

'  Shut  up  the  secretaire  !  It  is  in  the  drawer.  Ah  !  there 
she  is  coming  up-stairs  !  Oh  !  I  am  afraid  !  I  tell  you  that 
I  can  hear  her !  Don't  give  her  the  key.  Let  me  go,  at 
once,  at  once !  ' 

Then  again  she  began  to  struggle,  while  Pauline  held  her 
in  her  arms. 

'  Aunt,  there  is  no  one  here.     There  are  only  ourselves.' 

'No!  no!    Listen!    There  she  is!     Oh,  God!  God!  I 

H2 


i8o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

shall  die !  The  hussy  has  made  me  drink  it  all — I  am  going 
to  die !  I  am  going  to  die  1 ' 

Her  teeth  chattered,  and  she  sought  protection  in  the  arms 
of  her  niece,  whom  she  did  not  recognise.  Pauline  mourn- 
fully strained  her  to  her  heart,  no  longer  fighting  against  that 
horrible  suspicion,  but  resigning  herself  to  the  knowledge 
that  her  aunt  would  carry  it  to  her  grave. 

Fortunately  Ve"ronique  was  watching,  and  threw  her  arms 
forward  crying : 

'  Take  care,  Mademoiselle  !     Take  care  ! ' 

It  was  the  supreme  convulsive  struggle.  By  a  violent 
effort  Madame  Chanteau  had  succeeded  in  throwing  her 
swollen  legs  out  of  bed,  and,  but  for  the  servant's  presence, 
she  would  have  fallen  on  the  floor.  Her  whole  body  was 
shaken  by  delirium ;  she  broke  into  incoherent  spasmodic 
cries,  while  her  fists  clenched  as  though  she  were  engaging 
in  a  close  struggle,  defending  herself  against  some  phantom 
that  clutched  her  by  the  throat.  At  that  supreme  moment 
she  must  have  understood  that  she  was  dying ;  there  was  an 
expression  of  intelligence  in  her  eyes  which  horror  dilated. 
For  a  moment  a  frightful  spasm  of  pain  made  her  press  her 
hands  to  her  breast.  Then  she  fell  back  on  her  pillow  and 
turned  black.  She  was  dead. 

Deep  silence  fell.  Pauline  closed  her  aunt's  eyes,  but 
she  was  exhausted,  and  incapable  of  doing  anything  further. 
When  she  left  the  room,  leaving  there  both  Ve"ronique  and 
Prouane's  wife,  whom  she  had  sent  for  after  the  Doctor's 
visit,  her  strength  gave  way  ;  she  was  obliged  to  sit  down  for 
a  moment  on  the  stairs,  and  no  longer  felt  the  courage  to  go 
and  tell  Lazare  and  Chanteau  the  truth.  The  walls  seemed 
to  be  turning  round  her.  A  few  minutes  went  by  ;  then  she 
again  laid  her  hand  upon  the  banister,  but  on  hearing  Abbe 
Horteur's  voice  in  the  dining-room  she  preferred  to  enter  the 
kitchen.  And  there  she  found  Lazare,  whose  gloomy  face 
showed  against  the  red  glow  of  the  embers  in  the  grate. 
Without  speaking  a  word  she  stepped  towards  him  and  opened 
her  arms.  He  understood,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  young 
girl's  shoulder,  while  she  pressed  him  to  her  in  a  long  embrace. 
They  kissed  each  other  on  the  face,  while  she  wept  silently ; 
but  he  was  unable  to  shed  a  single  tear ;  emotion  was  stifling 
him,  he  could  scarcely  breathe.  At  last  the  girl  unclasped  her 
arms,  saying  the  first  words  that  came  to  her  lips : 

1  Why  are  you  here  without  a  light  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  181 

He  made  a  gesture,  as  though  to  signify  that  he  had  no 
aeed  of  any  light  in  his  great  sorrow. 

'  We  must  light  a  candle,'  she  said. 

Lazare  had  fallen  upon  a  chair  again,  incapable,  as  he 
was,  of  keeping  on  his  feet.  Matthew  restlessly  wandered 
about  the  yard,  sniffing  the  damp  night  air.  At  last  he  came 
back  into  the  kitchen  and  looked  keenly  at  them  in  turn,  and 
then  went  and  rested  his  head  on  his  master's  knee,  remain- 
ing there  and  silently  questioning  him,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  young  man's.  Lazare  began  to  tremble  at  the 
dog's  persistent  gaze,  and  suddenly  the  tears  gushed  from  his 
eyes  and  he  burst  into  sobs,  throwing  his  arms  the  while 
round  the  neck  of  the  old  dog  which  his  mother  had  loved 
for  fourteen  years.  And  he  began  to  stammer  in  broken 
words : 

'  Ah  1  my  poor  old  fellow  !  my  poor  old  fellow  1  We  shall 
never  see  her  again ! ' 

Notwithstanding  her  emotion,  Pauline  had  succeeded  in 
finding  and  lighting  a  candle.  She  made  no  attempt  to  console 
Lazare  ;  she  was  glad  to  find  him  able  to  shed  tears.  There 
was  still  a  painful  task  before  her,  that  of  informing  her 
uncle  of  his  wife's  death.  Just  as  she  was  making  up  her 
mind  to  go  into  the  dining-room,  whither  V&ronique  had 
taken  a  lamp  at  the  beginning  of  the  evening,  Abb6  Horteur 
had  managed  to  explain  to  Chanteau,  in  long  ecclesiastical 
phrases,  that  there  was  no  chance  of  his  wife's  recovery,  and 
that  her  death  was  only  a  question  of  hours.  And  so  when 
the  old  man  saw  his  niece  enter  the  room,  overcome  with 
emotion  and  her  eyes  red  from  weeping,  he  knew  what  had 
happened,  and  his  first  words  were : 

'  M on  Dieu  !  there  was  only  one  thing  that  I  would  have 
asked  for :  I  should  have  liked  to  see  her  once  more  while  she 
lived ! — But,  ah,  these  wretched  legs  of  mine !  These 
wretched  legs  I ' 

He  said  scarcely  anything  else.  He  shed  a  few  bitter 
tears  which  quickly  dried,  and  vented  a  few  sighs,  but  he 
speedily  returned  to  the  subject  of  his  legs,  falling  foul  of 
them  and  ending  by  pitying  himself.  For  a  few  moments 
they  discussed  the  possibility  of  carrying  him  to  the  first  floor 
in  order  that  he  might  give  the  dead  woman  a  last  kiss  ;  but, 
apart  from  the  difficulties  of  the  task,  they  considered  that 
the  emotion  of  such  a  farewell  might  have  a  dangerous  effect 
on  him  ;  and,  besides,  he  did  not  seem  very  anxious  about  the 


182  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

matter  himself.  So  he  remained  in  the  dining-room  near  the 
draught-board,  without  knowing  how  to  occupy  his  poor  weak 
hands,  and  not  even  having  his  head  clear  enough,  he  said,  to 
be  able  to  read  and  understand  the  newspaper.  When  they 
carried  him  to  bed,  old  memories  seemed  to  awaken  in  him, 
for  he  shed  many  tears. 

Then  came  two  long  nights  and  a  day  that  seemed  end- 
less :  those  terrible  hours  during  which  death  dwells  in  the 
house.  Cazenove  had  only  returned  to  certify  the  death, 
once  more  surprised  by  the  rapidity  with  which  the  end  had 
come.  Lazare  did  not  go  to  bed  the  first  night,  but  spent  his 
time  till  morning  in  writing  to  his  relations  at  a  distance. 
The  body  was  to  be  taken  to  the  cemetery  at  Caen  and  buried 
in  the  family  vault  there.  The  Doctor  had  kindly  promised 
to  see  to  all  the  formalities,  and  the  only  painful  matter  in 
connection  with  them  was  the  necessity  for  Chanteau,  as 
Mayor  of  Bonneville,  to  receive  the  declaration  of  his  wife's 
death.  As  Pauline  had  no  suitable  black  dress,  she  hastened 
to  make  one  out  of  an  old  skirt  and  a  merino  shawl,  which 
she  cut  into  a  bodice.  In  the  midst  of  these  occupations 
the  first  night  and  the  following  day  passed ;  but  the  second 
night  seemed  endless,  rendered  the  more  interminable  by  the 
mournful  prospect  of  the  morrow.  No  one  was  able  to  get 
any  sleep  ;  the  doors  remained  open,  and  lighted  candles  were 
left  upon  the  stairs  and  tables,  while  even  the  most  distant 
rooms  reeked  of  carbolic  acid.  They  were  all  in  the  grasp  of 
grief,  and  went  about  with  blurred  eyes  and  clammy  lips, 
feeling  but  one  dim  need,  that  of  clutching  hold  of  life  once 
more. 

At  last,  about  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  bell  of  the 
little  church  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  began  to  toll.  Out 
of  respect  to  Abbe"  Horteur,  who  had  behaved  so  well  and 
kindly  under  the  sad  circumstances,  the  family  had  determined 
that  the  religious  ceremony  should  be  performed  at  Bonneville, 
before  the  body  was  removed  to  the  cemetery  at  Caen.  As 
soon  as  Chanteau  heard  the  bell  toll,  he  began  to  wriggle 
about  in  his  chair. 

'  I  must  see  her  go  away,  at  any  rate,'  he  repeated,  '  Oh ! 
these  wretched  legs  of  mine  !  What  a  misery  it  is  to  have 
such  wretched  legs  as  mine  are  1 ' 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  they  tried  to  keep  him  from 
beholding  the  mournful  spectacle.  As  the  bell  began  to  toll 
more  quickly,  he  grew  angry  and  exclaimed  : 


THE  JOV  OF  LIFE  183 

1  Wheel  me  out  into  the  passage.  I  can  hear  them  bring- 
ing her  down.  Be  quick  1  be  quick !  I  must  see  her  go 
away  1 ' 

Pauline  and  Lazare,  who  were  in  full  mourning  and  had 
already  put  on  their  gloves,  were  obliged  to  do  as  he  bade 
them.  Standing,  the  one  on  his  right  and  the  other  on  his 
left,  they  wheeled  the  arm-chair  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
Four  men  were  just  bringing  the  corpse  downstairs,  bending 
beneath  its  great  weight.  As  Chanteau  caught  sight  of  the 
coffin,  with  its  new  wood  and  glittering  handles  and  large 
brass  name-plate,  he  made  an  instinctive  effort  to  rise,  but 
his  leaden  legs  kept  him  down,  and  he  waa  obliged  to  remain 
seated  in  his  chair,  shaken  by  such  a  convulsive  trembling 
that  his  very  jaws  chattered.  The  narrowness  of  the  staircase 
made  the  descent  difficult,  and  he  gazed  at  the  big  yellow  box 
as  it  slowly  came  towards  him,  and,  as  it  passed  his  feet,  he 
bent  over  to  read  the  inscription  on  the  plate.  There  was 
more  room  in  the  passage,  whence  the  bearers  moved  quickly 
towards  the  bier,  which  was  standing  before  the  door. 
Chanteau's  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  coffin,  and  with  it  he 
saw  forty  years  of  his  life  depart,  happy  years  and  unhappy 
years,  which  he  sadly  regretted,  as  one  ever  does  regret 
one's  youth.  Pauline  and  Lazare  were  weeping  behind  his 
chair. 

'  No,  no !  Leave  me  here  !  '  he  said  to  them,  as  he  saw 
them  prepare  to  wheel  him  back  again  to  his  place  in  the 
dining-room.  '  You  go  along ;  I  will  stay  here  and  watch.' 

The  bearers  had  laid  the  coffin  on  the  bier,  which  waa 
lifted  by  some  other  attendants.  The  little  procession  was 
formed  in  the  yard,  which  was  full  of  people  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Matthew,  who  had  been  shut  up  since  early 
morning,  was  whining  from  under  the  door  of  the  coach-house 
amidst  the  profound  silence  ;  while  Minouche,  seated  on  the 
kitchen  window-sill,  examined  with  an  air  of  surprise  both  the 
concourse  of  people  and  the  box  that  was  being  carried  away. 
As  they  still  continued  to  linger,  the  cat  grew  tired  of  watching 
and  began  to  lick  her  Stomach. 

1  You  are  not  going,  then  ? '  Chanteau  said  to  Ve'ronique, 
whom  he  had  just  perceived  near  him. 

'  No,  sir,'  she  replied  in  a  choking  voice.  '  Mademoiselle 
told  me  to  stay  with  you.' 

The  church-bell  was  still  tolling,  and  at  last  the  coffin 
left  the  yard,  followed  by  Pauline  and  Lazare,  whose  blackness 


184  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

seemed  intensified  by  the  sunlight.  And,  sitting  in  his 
invalid's  chair  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  hall,  Chanteau 
watched  his  wife's  body  being  borne  away. 


VII 

THE  funeral  matters  and  certain  business  affairs  that  had  to 
be  attended  to  detained  Lazare  and  Pauline  in  Caen  for  a 
couple  of  days.  When  they  set  out  on  their  journey  home, 
after  paying  a  farewell  visit  to  the  cemetery,  the  weather  had 
broken  up  and  there  was  a  strong  gale  blowing.  They  left 
Arromanches  in  a  storm  of  rain,  and  the  wind  blew  so  strongly 
that  it  threatened  to  carry  the  hood  of  their  trap  away. 
Pauline  thought  of  her  first  journey  when  Madame  Chanteau 
had  brought  her  from  Paris.  It  was  just  such  a  stormy  day 
as  this,  and  her  poor  aunt  had  kept  warning  her  not  to  lean 
out  of  the  conveyance,  while  perpetually  refastening  a  muffler 
that  she  wore  round  her  neck.  Lazare,  too,  in  his  corner  of 
the  trap,  sat  thinking  of  the  past,  and  in  his  mind's  eye  saw 
his  mother  waiting  to  welcome  him  after  each  of  his  journeys 
along  that  road  as  she  had  ever  done.  One  December,  he 
remembered,  she  had  walked  a  couple  of  leagues  to  meet  him, 
and  he  had  found  her  seated  on  yonder  milestone.  Thus 
reflecting,  amidst  the  rain  which  poured  unceasingly,  the 
girl  and  her  cousin  did  not  exchange  a  single  word  between 
Arromanches  and  Bonneville. 

Just  as  they  were  reaching  home,  however,  the  downpour 
stopped,  but  the  wind's  violence  increased,  and  the  driver  was 
obliged  to  alight  from  his  seat  and  take  hold  of  the  horse's 
bridle.  At  the  moment  of  reaching  the  house  Houtelard, 
the  fisherman,  ran  past  them. 

'  Ah !  Monsieur  Lazare  1 '  he  cried  ;  '  it's  all  done  for  this 
time !  The  sea's  breaking  all  your  timbers  to  bits  down 
yonder  1 ' 

The  sea  was  not  visible  from  that  bend  of  the  road.  The 
young  man,  who  had  raised  his  head,  had  just  caught  sight  of 
V6ronique  standing  on  the  terrace  and  gazing  towards  the 
shore.  On  the  other  side,  sheltering  himself  behind  his 
garden  wall,  for  fear  lest  the  wind  should  rend  his  cassock, 
Abb6  Horteur  stood  straining  his  eyes  in  the  same  direction. 
He  bent  forward  and  cried : 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  185 

'  It's  washing  your  piles  away  ! ' 

Thereupon  Lazare  walked  down  the  hill,  followed  by 
Pauline,  in  spite  of  the  storminess  of  the  weather.  When 
they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  cliff  they  were  amazed  by  the 
sight  which  they  beheld.  It  was  one  of  the  September  flood- 
tides,  and  the  sea  was  rushing  up  in  wild  commotion.  No 
warning  had  been  issued  of  any  probable  danger,  but  the  gale, 
which  had  been  blowing  from  the  north  since  the  previous 
day,  had  thrown  the  sea  into  such  tumult  that  mountains  of 
water  towered  up  in  the  distance  and,  rolling  onward,  broke 
with  a  mighty  roar  over  the  rocks.  In  the  far  distance  the 
sea  looked  black  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  clouds  which 
raced  over  the  livid  sky. 

'  Get  into  the  trap  again,'  said  the  young  man  to  his 
cousin.  'I  will  just  see  how  things  look,  and  come  back 
directly.' 

Pauline  made  no  reply,  but  followed  Lazare  as  far  as  the 
shore.  There  the  piles  and  a  great  stockade  which  had 
been  recently  constructed  were  being  subjected  to  a  frightful 
assault.  The  waves,  which  ever  seemed  to  be  growing  larger, 
rushed  against  them  in  quick  succession,  like  so  many  batter- 
ing-rams. They  came  on  like  an  innumerable  army  ;  fresh 
masses  sprang  forward  without  a  moment's  cessation.  Their 
huge  green  backs,  crested  with  foam,  curved  on  every  side, 
and  sped  forward  with  giant  strength  ;  and,  as  these  monsters 
dashed  against  the  stockades,  they  burst  into  a  mighty  rain 
of  drops,  then  fell  in  a  mass  of  white  boiling  foam,  which  the 
sea  seemed  to  suck  in  and  carry  away.  The  timbers  cracked 
beneath  the  violence  of  each  of  those  furious  onsets.  The 
supports  of  one  groyne  were  already  broken,  and  a  great  central 
beam,  still  secured  at  one  end,  swayed  hopelessly  like  the  dead 
trunk  of  a  tree  whose  branches  had  been  stripped  off  by 
grape-shot.  Two  others  offered  more  resistance,  but  they 
were  shaking  in  their  fixings,  as  though  gradually  overpowered 
in  that  surging  grasp,  which  seemed  bent  on  wearing  out 
their  strength  in  order  to  dash  them  to  pieces. 

'  I  told  you  how  it  would  be ! '  repeated  Prouane,  who  was 
very  drunk,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  broken  shell  of  an 
old  boat.  '  I  told  you  how  it  would  be  when  the  wind  blew  like 
this.  A  lot  the  sea  cares  about  that  young  man  and  his  bits 
of  sticks ! ' 

Jeers  greeted  these  words.  All  Bonneville  was  there, 
men,  women,  and  children ;  and  they  were  all  very  much 


1 86  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

amused  at  seeing  the  thundering  slaps  which  fell  upon  the 
stockades.  The  sea  might  smash  their  hovels  to  fragments ; 
they  still  loved  it  with  an  admiring  awe,  and  they  would 
have  felt  it  a  personal  insult  if  the  first  young  man  who  tried 
had  heen  able  to  conquer  it  with  a  few  beams  and  a  couple 
of  dozen  bolts.  And  they  grew  excited  as  with  a  feeling  of 
individual  triumph  as  they  saw  the  sea  at  last  awake,  un- 
muzzle itself,  and  throw  its  great  jaws  forward. 

'  Look !  look  ! '  cried  Houtelard.  '  That's  a  smasher  1  It 
has  swept  a  couple  of  beams  away  !  ' 

They  called  to  each  other,  and  Cuche  tried  to  reckon  up 
the  waves. 

'  It  will  take  three  more,  and  then  you'll  see !  There's 
one !  That's  loosened  it !  There's  two  I  Ah  1  that's  swept  it 
away !  Two  have  sufficed  to  do  it,  you  see  1  Ah,  the  old 
hussy  she  is  1 ' 

He  referred  to  the  sea,  uttering  the  word  '  hussy '  as  if 
it  were  a  term  of  endearment.  Affectionate  oaths  arose, 
children  began  to  dance  whenever  a  heavier  wave  than  usual 
crashed  and  snapped  another  of  the  timbers.  Yet  another 
broke,  and  yet  another ;  there  would  soon  be  not  one  left, 
they  would  all  be  crushed  like  fleas.  But  though  the  tide 
still  rose,  the  great  stockade  still  remained  firm.  It  was  the 
sea's  struggle  against  this  which  was  most  anxiously  awaited, 
for  it  would  be  the  decisive  contest.  At  last  the  mounting 
waves  dashed  between  the  timbers,  and  the  spectators  pre- 
pared themselves  to  laugh. 

'  It's  a  pity  the  young  man  isn't  here,'  said  that  rascal 
Tourmal  in  a  jeering  voice,  '  or  he  might  lean  against  it  and 
try  to  keep  it  up.' 

A  '  Hush ! '  made  him  silent,  for  some  of  the  fishermen 
had  just  caught  sight  of  Lazare  and  Pauline.  The  latter, 
who  were  very  pale,  had  heard  Tourmal's  sneer,  and  they 
continued  to  gaze  at  the  disaster  in  silence.  It  was  a  mere 
trifle,  the  smashing  of  those  beams,  but  the  tide  would  go  on 
rising  for  another  two  hours,  and  the  village  would  certainly 
suffer  if  the  stockade  did  not  hold  out.  Lazare  had  passed 
his  arm  round  his  cousin's  waist,  and  was  holding  her  close 
to  him  to  protect  her  from  the  squalls  which,  as  cutting 
as  scythe-blades,  blew  against  them.  A  mournful  gloom  fell 
from  the  black  sky  and  the  waves  howled,  and  the  two  young 
people,  in  their  deep  mourning,  remained  motionless  amidst 
the  flying  foam  and  the  clamour  that  was  ever  growing 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  187 

louder.  Around  them  the  fishermen  were  now  waiting,  still 
with  a  jeering  expression  on  their  lips,  but  feeling  increasing 
anxiety. 

'  It  won't  last  much  longer  now  ! '  Houtelard  murmured. 
The  stockade  still  resisted,  however.  At  each  wave  that 
struck  it  its  black,  pitch-coated  timbers  still  showed  forth 
amidst  the  white  waters.  But  as  soon  as  one  of  the  beams 
was  broken,  the  adjoining  ones  began  to  fall  away,  piece  by 
piece.  For  fifty  years  past  the  oldest  men  there  had  not 
known  such  a  heavy  sea.  Soon  they  had  to  retire,  the 
beams  which  had  been  torn  away  were  dashed  violently 
against  the  others,  and  gradually  wrought  the  complete 
destruction  of  the  stockade,  whose  fragments  were  furiously 
hurled  ashore.  There  was  but  one  left  upright,  standing 
there  like  a  post  marking  a  sandbank.  The  Bonneville 
folks  had  given  over  laughing  now ;  the  women  were  carrying 
off  their  crying  children.  The  '  hussy '  had  fallen  upon  them 
again,  and  the  stupor  that  came  of  despairing  resignation  to 
the  ruin  which  was  certainly  at  hand  now  fell  on  that  little 
spot,  nestling  so  closely  to  the  sea  which  both  supported  and 
destroyed  it.  There  was  a  hasty  retreat,  a  gallop  of  heavy 
boots.  Everyone  took  refuge  behind  the  walls  of  shingle,  by 
which  alone  the  houses  were  now  protected.  Some  of  the 
piles  here  were  already  yielding,  planks  had  been  knocked 
out,  and  enormous  waves  swept  right  over  the  walls  which 
were  too  low  to  stay  their  course.  Soon  there  was  nothing 
left  to  offer  resistance,  and  a  mass  of  water,  dashing  against 
Houtelard's  house,  smashed  the  windows  and  deluged  the 
kitchen.  Then  there  came  perfect  rout,  and  only  the 
victorious  sea  remained  dashing  unimpeded  up  the  beach. 

'  Don't  go  inside ! '  the  men  shouted  to  Houtelard.  '  The 
roof  will  fall  in.' 

Lazare  and  Pauline  had  slowly  retired  before  the  flood. 
It  was  impossible  to  render  any  assistance,  and,  climbing  the 
hill  homewards,  they  were  about  half-way  up  it  when  the 
girl  turned,  and  gave  a  last  look  at  the  threatened  village. 

'  Poor  people  !  '  she  murmured. 

But  Lazare  could  not  pardon  them  for  their  idiotic 
laughter.  He  was  wounded  to  the  heart  by  that  disaster, 
which  for  him  was  a  personal  defeat ;  and,  making  an  angry 
gesture,  he  at  last  opened  his  mouth  and  growled  : 

'  Let  the  sea  lie  in  their  beds,  since  they're  so  fond  of  it  1 
I  certainly  won't  try  to  prevent  it  1 ' 


1 88  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Ve'ronique  came  to  meet  them  with  an  umbrella,  for  the 
rain  had  begun  falling  heavily  again.  Abb6  Horteur,  who 
was  still  sheltering  himself  behind  his  wall,  called  a  few  words 
to  them  which  they  could  not  catch.  The  frightful  weather, 
the  destruction  of  the  stockade,  and  the  woe  and  danger  in 
which  they  were  leaving  the  village,  cast  additional  sadness 
upon  their  return  home.  The  house  seemed  cold  and  bare 
as  they  entered  it ;  nothing  but  the  wind,  with  its  ceaseless 
moaning,  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  mournful  rooms. 
Ohanteau,  who  was  dozing  before  a  coke-fire,  began  to  cry 
as  soon  as  they  appeared.  They  refrained  from  going 
upstairs  to  change  their  clothes,  in  order  that  they  might 
escape  the  terrible  associations  of  the  staircase.  The  table 
was  already  laid  and  the  lamp  lighted,  so  they  sat  down  to 
dinner  immediately. 

It  was  a  sinister  night  ;  the  deafening  shocks  of  the 
waves,  which  made  the  walls  tremble,  broke  in  upon  the  few 
words  that  were  spoken.  When  Veionique  brought  the  tea 
into  the  room  she  announced  that  Houtelard's  house  and  five 
others  were  already  swept  away,  and  that  half  the  village 
would  certainly  share  the  same  fate  this  time.  Chanteau,  in 
despair  at  not  yet  having  recovered  his  mental  equilibrium 
after  the  sufferings  he  had  gone  through,  silenced  her  by 
saying  that  he  had  enough  troubles  of  his  own,  and  didn't 
want  to  hear  about  those  of  other  people.  When  they  had 
put  him  to  bed,  the  others  went  off  to  rest  also,  worn  out  as 
they  were  with  fatigue.  Lazare  kept  a  light  burning  till 
morning;  and  half  a  score  times  at  least  during  the  night 
Pauline  anxiously  slipped  out  of  bed  and  gently  opened  her 
door  to  listen ;  but  only  death-like  silence  now  ascended  from 
the  first  floor. 

The  next  day  there  commenced  for  the  young  man  a 
succession  of  those  lingering,  poignant  hours  which  come  in 
the  train  of  great  sorrows.  He  awoke  with  the  sensation  of 
recovering  from  unconsciousness  after  some  painful  fall,  from 
which  his  body  was  still  stiff  and  bruised.  Now  that  the 
troubled  dreams  which  had  oppressed  him  had  passed  away, 
his  mind  vividly  recalled  the  past.  Each  little  detail  pre- 
sented itself  clearly  before  him,  and  he  lived  all  his  griefs 
again.  The  reality  of  death,  which  had  never  been  within 
his  personal  experience,  was  brought  home  to  him  by  the  loss 
of  his  poor  mother,  who  had  been  so  suddenly  carried  off 
after  a  few  days'  illness.  His  horror  of  ceasing  to  be  seemed 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  189 

to  assume  a  more  tangible  form.  There  had  been  four  of 
them,  but  now  there  was  a  yawning  gap  in  their  midst,  and 
three  of  them  were  left  behind  to  shiver  painfully  in  their 
wretchedness,  and  cling  desperately  to  each  other  in  their 
attempts  to  regain  some  fragment  of  lost  vital  warmth.  This, 
then,  was  death :  this  was  the  '  Nevermore ' — a  circling  of 
trembling  arms  around  a  shadow,  of  which  naught  remained 
save  a  wild  regret. 

Every  hour,  as  the  image  of  his  mother  arose  before 
him,  Lazare  seemed  to  be  losing  her  over  again.  At  first  he 
had  not  suffered  so  much,  not  even  when  his  cousin  had 
come  down-stairs  and  thrown  herself  into  his  arms,  nor  during 
the  prolonged  misery  of  the  funeral.  It  was  only  since  his 
return  to  the  empty  house  that  he  had  felt  the  full  weight 
of  hia  loss ;  and  he  grew  wild  with  remorse  that  he  had 
not  wept  more  and  manifested  greater  grief  while  there  yet 
remained  in  the  house  something  of  her  who  was  now  for 
ever  gone. 

Sometimes  he  would  almost  choke  with  sobs  as  he  re- 
proached himself  with  not  having  loved  his  mother  sufficiently. 
He  was  perpetually  recalling  her;  and  her  form  was  ever 
before  his  eyes.  When  he  went  up  the  stairs  he  half  expected 
to  see  her  come  out  of  her  room  with  the  quick,  short  steps 
with  which  she  had  been  wont  to  hurry  along  the  landing. 
He  often  turned,  fancying  he  heard  her  behind  him,  and  he 
was  so  absorbed  in  thinking  of  her  that  sometimes  he  even 
felt  sure  that  he  heard  the  rustling  of  her  dress  behind  the 
door.  At  night  he  did  not  dare  to  extinguish  his  candle,  and 
in  the  dim  light  he  fancied  that  he  heard  furtive  sounds 
approaching  his  bed,  and  a  faint  breath  hovering  over  hia 
brow.  His  grief,  instead  of  being  assuaged,  grew  keener ; 
at  the  least  recollection  came  a  nervous  shock,  a  vivid  but 
fugitive  apparition,  which,  as  it  faded  away,  left  him  in  all 
the  anguish  which  the  thought  of  death  inspired. 

Everything  in  the  house  reminded  him  of  his  mother. 
Her  room  remained  untouched ;  nothing  had  been  changed, 
a  thimble  was  still  lying  upon  the  table  beside  a  piece  of 
embroidery.  The  clock  on  the  mantel- piece  had  been  stopped 
at  twenty-three  minutes  to  eight,  the  time  of  her  death.  He 
usually  shunned  the  room,  though  sometimes,  as  he  was 
hastily  rushing  upstairs,  a  sudden  impulse  constrained  him 
to  enter  it;  and  then,  as  his  heart  throbbed  wildly  within 
him,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  old  familiar  furniture — the 


i9o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

secretaire,  the  table,  and  especially  the  bed— had  acquired  an 
awe-inspiring  aspect,  which  made  them  different  from  what 
they  had  formerly  been.  Through  the  shutters,  which  were 
kept  closed,  there  filtered  a  pale  light,  whose  vague  glimmer 
added  to  his  distress  as  he  went  to  kiss  the  pillow  on  which 
his  mother's  head  had  lain  in  the  icy  cold  of  death.  One 
morning  when  he  went  into  the  room  he  paused  astounded. 
The  shutters  had  been  thrown  wide  open  and  the  full  light  of 
day  poured  into  the  chamber.  A  bright  sheet  of  sunshine 
streamed  over  the  bed  to  the  very  pillow,  and  the  room  was 
decked  with  flowers,  placed  in  all  the  vases  that  the  house 
possessed.  Then  he  recollected  that  it  was  an  anniversary, 
the  birthday  of  her  who  had  departed ;  a  day  which  had  been 
observed  every  year,  and  which  his  cousin  had  remembered. 
There  were  only  the  flowers  of  autumn  there — some  asters, 
marguerites,  and  the  last  lingering  roses,  already  touched 
by  frost — but  they  were  sweetly  redolent  of  life,  and  they 
set  joyous  colours  round  the  lifeless  dial,  which  seemed 
to  mark  the  arrest  of  time's  progress.  That  pious  womanly 
observance  filled  Lazare  with  emotion,  and  for  a  long  time  he 
remained  there  weeping. 

The  dining-room,  the  kitchen,  and  the  terrace,  too,  equally 
reminded  him  of  his  mother.  All  the  little  objects  he  saw 
lying  about  suggested  her  to  him.  He  was  quite  beset  by 
his  mother's  image,  though  he  never  spoke  of  it,  and  indeed, 
with  a  feeling  of  uneasy  shame,  tried  to  conceal  the  constant 
torture  which  he  experienced.  He  even  avoided  mentioning  his 
mother's  name,  so  that  it  might  have  been  supposed  that  he 
had  already  forgotten  her,  whereas  all  the  time  never  a 
moment  passed  without  memory  bringing  a  bitter  pang  to  his 
heart.  It  was  only  his  cousin  who  penetrated  his  secret,  and 
when  she  spoke  to  him  about  it  he  took  refuge  in  falsehoods, 
protesting  that  he  had  put  out  his  light  at  midnight,  and  had 
been  very  busy  over  some  work  or  other.  And  he  almost 
worked  himself  into  an  angry  passion  if  he  were  further 
pressed.  He  took  refuge  in  his  room,  and  there  abandoned 
himself  to  his  reflections,  feeling  calmer  in  that  retreat  where 
he  had  grown  up,  free  from  the  fear  of  revealing  to  others  the 
secret  of  his  distress. 

At  first  he  had  tried  to  force  himself  to  go  out  and  resume 
his  long  walks,  thinking  that  by  doing  so  he  would  at  any 
rate  escape  V^ronique's  grumpy  taciturnity  and  the  painful 
sight  of  his  father,  who  lay  listlessly  in  his  chair,  not  knowing 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  191 

how  to  occupy  himself.  But  he  now  felt  an  invincible  dis- 
taste for  walking ;  out  of  doors  he  grew  weary  with  a  weari- 
ness that  almost  amounted  to  discomfort.  The  sea  with  its 
perpetual  surging,  its  stubborn  waves  that  broke  against  the 
cliffs  twice  a  day,  irritated  him  as  being  a  mere  senseless 
force  that  recked  nothing  of  his  grief,  and  had  gone  on 
wearing  the  same  rocks  away  for  centuries,  without  ever 
shedding  a  single  tear  for  the  death  of  a  human  being.  It 
was  too  vast,  too  cold ;  and  he  hurried  back  home  again  and 
shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  that  he  might  feel  less  conscious 
of  his  own  littleness,  less  crushed  between  the  boundless- 
ness of  sea  and  sky.  There  was  only  one  spot  that  had 
any  attraction  for  him,  and  that  was  the  graveyard  which 
surrounded  the  church.  His  mother  was  not  there,  but  he 
could  think  of  her  there  with  a  melting  tenderness  ;  and, 
despite  his  horror  of  death,  the  place  had  a  singularly  calming 
effect  upon  him.  The  tombs  lay  asleep,  as  it  were,  amongst 
the  grass  ;  there  were  yew-trees  which  had  sprung  up  in  the 
protecting  shade  of  the  church,  and  not  a  sound  was  to  be 
heard  save  the  call  of  the  curlews,  hovering  in  the  wind 
from  the  open.  There  he  forgot  himself  for  hours  amongst 
the  old  tombstones,  whence  the  very  names  of  those  who 
had  long  since  passed  away  had  been  obliterated  by  the  heavy 
rains  from  the  west. 

If  Lazare  had  felt  any  belief  in  another  world,  if  he  had 
been  able  to  think  that  he  would  one  day  again  meet  those 
he  loved  at  the  other  side  of  the  grave's  black  wall,  he  would 
have  been  far  happier  ;  but  this  consolation  was  denied  him, 
he  felt  no  doubt  as  to  death  being  the  end  and  extinction 
of  individual  life.  And  yet  his  own  individuality,  which  ill- 
brooked  the  thought  of  being  snuffed  out,  rose  up  in  mutiny 
against  his  convictions.  What  joy  there  would  have  been  in 
entering  upon  a  fresh  life  elsewhere,  far  away  amongst 
the  stars,  a  new  existence  in  which  he  would  have  been 
once  again  surrounded  by  all  he  loved !  Ah !  if  he  could 
only  believe  in  that,  how  the  agony  he  now  suffered  would  be 
turned  to  sweetness,  in  looking  forward  to  rejoin  lost  loved 
ones  !  How  thrilling  would  be  their  kisses  at  meeting,  and 
what  blessedness  it  would  be  to  live  all  together  again 
in  some  realm  where  there  would  be  no  more  death  !  He 
was  racked  with  agony  at  the  thought  of  the  charitable 
falsehoods  of  creeds  compassionately  designed  to  hide  the 
terrible  truth  from  those  too  weak  to  bear  it.  No  !  Death 


i92  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

was  the  end  of  everything  ;  nothing  that  we  had  loved  could 
ever  bud  into  fresh  life,  the  good-bye  was  said  for  ever. 
Oh  !  those  awful  words — '  for  ever '  1  It  was  they  that  carried 
his  brain  into  the  dizzy  vertigo  of  empty  nothingness. 

One  morning,  as  Lazare  was  brooding  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  yews,  he  caught  sight  of  Abb6  Horteur  at  the  bottom 
of  his  vegetable  garden,  which  was  only  separated  from  the 
graveyard  by  a  low  wall.  Wearing  an  old  grey  blouse  and  a 
pair  of  wooden  shoes,  the  priest  was  digging  a  cabbage-bed  ; 
and,  with  his  face  browned  by  the  keen  sea  air  and  the  back 
of  his  neck  scorched  by  the  sun,  he  looked  like  an  old 
peasant  bending  over  his  work.  With  a  miserable  stipend, 
and  without  any  casual  remuneration  in  the  shape  of  fees 
in  that  little  out-of-the-way  parish,  he  would  have  died  of 
sheer  starvation  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  eke  out  his 
livelihood  by  growing  a  few  vegetables.  What  little  money 
he  had  went  in  charity,  and  he  lived  quite  alone,  assisted 
only  by  a  young  girl  from  the  village,  and  often  obliged  to 
cook  his  own  meals.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  soil  of 
that  rocky  spot  was  scarcely  good  for  anything,  and  the 
wind  withered  the  young  plants,  so  that  it  was  scarcely  worth 
while  to  cultivate  the  stony  ground  for  the  sake  of  the 
meagre  return  he  got.  When  he  put  his  blouse  on,  he 
always  tried  to  keep  himself  from  notice,  for  fear  lest  it 
should  give  anyone  cause  to  scoff  at  religion ;  and  Lazare, 
knowing  this,  was  about  to  withdraw  when  he  saw  him 
take  his  pipe  out  of  his  pocket,  fill  it  with  tobacco,  and  then 
light  it  with  a  loud  smacking  of  his  lips.  Just  as  he  was 
enjoying  his  first  puffs,  however,  the  Abb6  caught  sight  of 
the  young  man.  He  then  made  a  hasty  movement,  as  though 
he  wished  to  hide  his  pipe,  but  finally  broke  into  a  laugh,  and 
called : 

'  Ah  !  you  are  enjoying  the  fresh  air.  Come  in  and  have 
a  look  at  my  garden.' 

And,  as  Lazare  came  up  to  him,  he  added  gaily  : 

'  Well,  you  see,  you  find  me  in  the  midst  of  a  debauch. 
It  is  the  only  pleasure  I  get,  my  friend,  and  I'm  sure  that 
it  will  not  offend  God.' 

Thereupon  he  put  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  again,  and  puffed 
away  freely,  only  taking  it  out  at  times  to  make  a  short 
remark.  For  instance,  the  priest  of  Verchemont  worried  him. 
That  priest  was  a  happy  man,  possessing  a  really  fine  garden 
with  a  good  and  fruitful  soil;  but  he  never  so  much  as 


THE  /Oi    OF  LIFE  193 

touched  a  garden  tool.  And  next  the  Abbe"  complained  to 
Lazare  about  his  potatoes,  which  had  been  falling  off  for 
the  last  two  years,  though  the  soil,  he  said,  was  exactly  suited 
to  them. 

'  Don't  let  me  disturb  you,'  Lazare  replied.  '  Please  go  on 
with  what  you  were  doing.' 

The  Abbe  then  resumed  his  digging. 

'  Yes,  indeed,  I  must  get  on,'  he  said.  '  The  youngsters 
will  be  here  for  the  catechism  class  presently,  and  I  want  to 
get  this  bed  finished  before  they  come.' 

Lazare  had  seated  himself  on  a  slab  of  granite,  some 
ancient  tombstone,  placed  against  the  low  wall  of  the  church- 
yard. He  watched  Abbe  Horteur  struggling  with  the  stones 
and  listened  to  him  while  he  talked  on  in  a  shrill  voice  that 
suggested  a  child's ;  and,  as  the  young  fellow  watched  and 
listened,  he  wished  that  he  could  be  as  poor  and  as  simple- 
minded  as  the  priest,  with  a  brain  as  empty  and  a  body  as 
tranquil.  The  mere  fact  that  the  Bishop  had  allowed  Abbe 
Horteur  to  grow  old  in  that  wretched  cure  showed  how 
innocent  and  guileless  the  good  man  had  the  reputation  of 
being.  Besides,  he  was  one  of  those  who  never  complain, 
and  whose  ambition  is  satisfied  so  long  as  they  have  bread  to 
eat  and  water  to  drink. 

'  It  isn't  very  cheerful  living  amongst  all  these  tombs,' 
the  young  man  remarked,  thinking  aloud. 

The  priest  stopped  digging  in  surprise. 

'  What !  not  cheerful  ?  ' 

'  Well,  you  have  got  death  perpetually  before  your  eyes. 
I  should  think  you  must  dream  about  it  at  nights.' 

The  priest  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  spat  upon 
the  ground. 

'  No,  indeed,  I  never  dream  about  it  at  all.  We  are  all 
in  the  hands  of  God.' 

Then  he  began  to  dig  again,  driving  his  spade  into  the 
ground  with  a  blow  of  his  heel.  His  faith  kept  him  free 
from  fear,  and  his  imagination  never  strayed  beyond  what 
was  revealed  in  the  catechism.  Good  folks  died  and  went 
to  heaven.  Nothing  could  be  simpler  and  more  encourag- 
ing. He  smiled  in  a  convinced  sort  of  way ;  that  stolid, 
unwavering  theory  of  salvation  sufficed  for  his  narrow 
brain. 

From  that  time  forward  Lazare  visited  the  priest  almost 
every  morning  in  his  garden.  He  would  sit  down  on  the  old 

o 


I94  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

tombstone  and  forget  his  thoughts  as  he  watched  the  Abbe" 
cultivating  his  vegetables ;  he  even  gained  a  temporary 
tranquillity  by  the  contemplation  of  the  other's  blind  faith 
which  enabled  him  to  live  in  the  midst  of  death  without 
disquiet.  Why  couldn't  he  himself,  he  thought,  become  a 
simple  child  again,  like  that  old  man  ?  In  the  depths  of  his 
heart  he  harboured  some  lurking  hope  that  his  dead  faith 
might  be  fanned  into  life  again  by  his  converse  with  the 
guileless,  simple-minded  priest,  whose  tranquil  ignorance  had 
such  a  charm  for  him.  He  began  to  bring  a  pipe  with  him, 
and  the  pair  of  them  smoked  together  while  they  chatted 
about  the  slugs  that  devoured  the  salad  plants,  or  the 
manure  that  was  too  expensive,  for  it  was  seldom  that  the 
priest  spoke  of  God.  With  his  spirit  of  tolerance  and  long 
experience  he  reserved  the  Divinity  for  his  own  personal 
salvation.  Other  people  looked  after  their  affairs  in  their 
way  and  he  looked  after  his  in  his  fashion.  After  thirty  years 
of  unavailing  preaching  and  warning  he  now  strictly  confined 
himself  to  the  observance  of  his  ministerial  duties.  It  was 
very  kind  of  that  young  man,  he  thought,  to  come  and  see 
him  every  day,  and  as,  with  his  tolerant  and  charitable  dis- 
position, he  did  not  want  to  cavil  with  him  nor  to  inveigh 
against  the  theories  which  he  must  have  brought  back  from 
Paris,  he  preferred  to  keep  on  talking  with  him  about  the 
garden ;  and  thus  Lazare,  with  his  head  buzzing  with  all  the 
priest's  simple  gossip,  sometimes  thought  that  he  was  really 
on  the  point  of  relapsing  into  that  happy  age  of  ignorance 
when  fear  is  unknown. 

But  though  the  mornings  thus  glided  away,  Lazare  every 
night,  up  in  his  room,  still  brooded  over  the  memory  of  his 
mother,  without  being  able  to  summon  up  enough  courage  to 
put  out  his  candle.  His  faith  was  dead.  One  day,  as  he  sat 
smoking  with  Abb6  Horteur,  the  latter  hastily  put  his  pipe 
out  of  sight  on  hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps  behind  the 
pear-trees.  It  was  Pauline,  who  had  come  to  look  for  her 
cousin. 

'  The  Doctor  is  in  the  house,'  said  she,  '  and  I  have  asked 
him  to  stay  to  lunch.  You'll  come  in  soon,  won't  you  ?  ' 

She  was  smiling,  for  she  had  caught  sight  of  the  Abbess 
pipe  beneath  his  blouse.  The  priest  quickly  pulled  it  out 
again,  with  that  cheerful  laugh  to  which  he  was  addicted 
whenever  he  was  discovered  smoking. 

'  It's  very  silly  of  me,'  he  said.    '  People  would  think  I 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  195 

had  been  committing  a  crime.     See !  I  am  going  to  light  it 
again  before  you ! ' 

'  I  tell  you  what,  your  reverence ! '  Pauline  exclaimed 
gaily ;  '  come  and  lunch  with  us  and  the  Doctor,  and  you  can 
smoke  your  pipe  afterwards.' 

The  priest  was  delighted,  and  immediately  replied : 

'  Well  yes,  I  accept.  I  will  follow  you  directly.  I  must 
just  put  my  cassock  on.  And  I  will  bring  my  pipe  with  me ; 
I  promise  I  will.' 

It  was  the  first  luncheon,  since  Madame  Chanteau's  death, 
at  which  the  dining-room  had  re-echoed  with  the  sound  of 
laughter.  Abbe"  Horteur  smoked  his  pipe  after  dessert, 
and  this  made  them  all  merry,  but  he  evinced  such  genial 
humour  over  this  indulgence  that  it  at  once  seemed  quite 
natural.  Chanteau,  who  had  eaten  heartily,  grew  quite  lively 
under  the  cheering  influence  of  this  fresh  stir  of  life  in  the 
house.  Doctor  Cazenove  told  stories  about  savages,  while 
Pauline  beamed  with  pleasure  at  hearing  all  the  noise, 
hoping  that  it  might  perhaps  draw  Lazare  from  his  moody 
despondency. 

After  that  luncheon,  Pauline  determined  to  revert  to  the 
Saturday  dinners,  which  had  been  broken  off  by  her  aunt's 
death.  The  Abbe"  and  the  Doctor  came  regularly  to  these 
repasts,  and  the  family  life  was  resumed  on  its  old  lines 
once  more.  They  jested  together,  and  the  widower  would 
clap  his  hands  on  his  legs  and  protest  that,  if  it  wasn't  for 
that  confounded  gout,  he  would  get  up  and  dance,  so  jovial 
did  he  feel.  It  was  only  Lazare  who  still  remained  in  an 
unsettled  state ;  his  gaiety  was  forced,  and  he  often  shook 
with  a  sudden  shudder  while  he  was  noisily  chattering. 

One  Saturday  evening,  in  the  middle  of  dinner,  Abbe" 
Horteur  was  summoned  to  the  bedside  of  a  dying  man.  He 
did  not  even  wait  to  empty  his  glass,  but  set  off  at  once, 
without  paying  any  heed  to  the  Doctor,  who  had  visited  the 
man  before  coming  to  dine  and  had  told  the  Abb6  he  would 
find  him  already  dead.  The  priest  had  shown  himself  so 
weak  in  intellect  that  evening  that  as  soon  as  his  back  was 
turned  Chanteau  remarked : 

'  There  are  times  when  there  seems  to  be  very  little  in 
him.' 

'  I  would  willingly  change  places  with  him,'  Lazare 
roughly  rejoined.  '  He  is  much  happier  than  we  are.' 

The  Doctor  laughed. 

02 


r96  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

'That  may  be  so.  Matthew  and  Minouche  are  also 
happier  than  we  are.  Ah !  I  recognise  in  that  remark  of 
yours  the  young  man  of  to-day,  who  has  nibbled  at  the 
sciences  and  filled  himself  with  discontent  because  they  have 
not  enabled  him  to  satisfy  his  old  ideas  of  the  absolute,  ideas 
which  he  sucked  in  with  his  mother's  milk.  At  the  very  first 
attempt  you  want  to  discover  every  truth  in  the  sciences, 
whereas  we  can  barely  decipher  them,  when,  maybe,  the 
inquiry  will  go  on  for  ever.  Then  you  begin  to  say  that 
there  is  nothing  in  them,  and  you  try  to  fall  back  upon  your 
old  faith,  which  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you,  and 
so  you  drop  into  pessimism.  Yes !  pessimism  is  the  disease 
of  the  end  of  the  century.  You  are  a  set  of  Werthers  turned 
upside  down  ! ' 

This  was  the  Doctor's  favourite  subject,  and  he  grew  quite 
animated  over  it.  Lazare,  on  his  side,  exaggerated  his 
denial  of  all  certainty,  and  his  belief  in  final  and  universal 
evil. 

'How  can  we  live,'  he  asked,  'when  at  every  moment 
things  give  way  beneath  our  feet  ? ' 

The  old  man  yielded  to  an  impulse  of  youthful  passion  as 
he  retorted : 

'  Why,  just  go  on  living !  Isn't  life  itself  sufficient  ? 
Happiness  consists  in  action.' 

Then  he  abruptly  addressed  himself  to  Pauline,  who  was 
listening  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

'  Come  now ! '  he  said,  '  tell  us  what  you  do  to  be  always 
cheerful ! ' 

'  Oh  1'  she  replied,  in  a  joking  tone,  '  I  try  to  forget  all 
about  myself,  for  fear  lest  I  should  grow  melancholy,  and  I 
think  about  others ;  that  occupies  my  mind,  and  makes  me 
bear  my  troubles  patiently.' 

This  reply  seemed  to  irritate  Lazare,  who,  prompted  by  a 
spirit  of  malicious  contradiction,  asserted  that  women  ought 
to  be  religious ;  and  he  pretended  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand why  Pauline  had  ceased  to  fulfil  her  duties  for  so  long 
a  time.  Thereupon  the  girl  gave  her  reasons  in  her 
tranquil  manner. 

'  It  is  very  easily  explained,'  she  said.  '  Confession  proved 
very  distasteful  to  me  and  hurt  my  feelings,  and  it  affects 
many  women,  I  think,  in  the  same  way.  Then,  again,  I 
can't  bring  myself  to  believe  things  that  seem  contrary 
to  reason.  And,  that  being  so,  why  should  I  tell  a  lie  by 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  197 

pretending  that  I  do  believe  them?  And,  besides,  the 
unknown  in  no  way  disquiets  me ;  it  can  only  be  a  logical 
outcome  of  life,  and  it  seems  to  me  best  to  await  it  as 
tranquilly  as  possible.' 

'  Hush !  Here's  the  Abb6  ! '  interrupted  Chanteau,  whom 
this  conversation  was  beginning  to  bore. 

The  man  was  dead,  and  the  Abb6  placidly  finished 
his  dinner,  after  which  they  each  drank  a  little  glass  of 
chartreuse. 

Pauline  had  now  assumed  the  management  of  the  house- 
hold. All  the  purchases  and  every  detail  of  the  establishment 
came  under  her  inspection,  and  a  big  bunch  of  keys  dangled 
from  her  waist.  She  took  over  the  control  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  Veronique  showed  no  sign  of  displeasure  at  it. 
The  servant  had  been  very  morose,  however,  since  Madame 
Chanteau's  death,  and  almost  appeared  to  be  in  a  state  of 
stupor.  Her  affection  for  the  dead  woman  seemed  to  revive, 
and  she  once  more  began  to  treat  Pauline  with  suspicious 
surliness.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  the  latter  spoke  softly 
and  soothingly  to  her  ;  she  took  offence  at  a  word,  and  could 
often  be  heard  muttering  and  grumbling  to  herself  in  the 
kitchen.  And  whenever,  after  intervals  of  obstinate  silence, 
she  indulged  in  those  muttered  soliloquies,  she  always  ap- 
peared to  be  overwhelmed  by  stupefaction  at  Madame 
Chanteau's  death.  Had  she  known  that  her  mistress  was 
going  to  die,  she  moaned  to  herself  ?  If  she  had  had  any 
notion  of  such  a  thing,  she  would  never  have  thought  of 
saying  what  she  had  said.  Justice  before  everything!  It 
wasn't  right  to  kill  people,  even  if  they  had  their  faults. 
But  she  washed  her  hands  of  it  all,  she  growled ;  it  would 
be  so  much  the  worse  for  the  person  who  was  the  real  cause  of 
the  misfortune.  Still,  this  assurance  did  not  seem  to  calm  her, 
for  she  went  on  growling  and  struggling  against  imaginary 
transgressions. 

'  What's  the  matter  that  you  are  perpetually  worrying 
yourself  like  this  ? '  Pauline  asked  her  one  day.  '  We  both 
did  all  we  could  ;  but  we  can  do  nothing  against  death.' 

Veronique  shook  her  head. 

'  Ah  !  people  don't  usually  die  like  that.  Madame  Chan- 
teau was  what  she  was,  but  she  took  me  in  when  I  was  quite 
a  little  girl,  and  I  could  cut  my  tongue  out  if  I  thought  that 
anything  I  ever  said  had  aught  to  do  with  her  death.  Don't 
let  us  talk  about  it  any  more  ;  it  would  end  badly.' 


198  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

No  further  reference  had  been  made  by  Pauline  and 
Lazare  to  their  marriage.  Chanteau,  who  was  desirous  of 
bringing  the  matter  to  a  conclusion,  now  that  the  main 
obstacle  to  it  had  disappeared,  had  ventured  to  allude  to  it 
one  day  when  Pauline  came  and  sat  near  him  with  her 
sewing  to  keep  him  company.  He  felt  a  keen  desire  to  retain 
her  beside  him  and  a  great  horror  of  again  falling  into  the 
hands  of  V6ronique  should  his  niece  ever  leave  him.  Pauline, 
however,  gave  him  to  understand  that  nothing  could  be 
settled  until  the  completion  of  the  period  of  mourning.  It 
was  not  a  feeling  of  propriety  alone  that  prompted  her  to 
make  that  vague  reply,  but  she  was  also  looking  to  time  to 
answer  a  question  which  she  dared  not  attempt  to  answer 
herself.  The  suddenness  of  her  aunt's  death,  that  terrible 
blow  from  which  neither  she  nor  her  cousin  had  yet  recovered, 
had  brought  about  a  kind  of  truce  between  their  wounded 
affections,  from  which  they  were  gradually  awaking,  only 
to  suffer  the  more  on  finding  themselves,  amidst  their  ir- 
reparable loss,  face  to  face  with  their  own  distressful  story : 
Louise  driven  out  of  the  house ;  their  love  shattered, 
and,  perhaps,  the  whole  course  of  their  existences  modified. 
What  was  to  be  done  now  ?  Did  they  still  love  each  other  ? 
Was  their  marriage  possible  or  advisable?  Questions  like 
these  floated  through  their  minds,  amidst  the  stupor  in 
which  they  were  left  by  the  sudden  blow  that  had  fallen 
upon  them,  and  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  seemed  anxious 
to  force  on  a  solution. 

With  Pauline,  however,  the  recollection  of  the  insult 
offered  to  her  had  lost  much  of  its  bitterness.  She  had  long 
ago  forgiven  Lazare,  and  was  quite  ready  to  place  her  hand 
in  his  whenever  he  should  show  repentance.  She  had  not 
the  least  jealous  desire  to  see  him  humiliate  himself  before 
her  ;  her  only  thought  was  for  him,  so  that  she  might  give 
him  back  his  promise  if  he  no  longer  loved  her.  Her  whole 
anguish  lay  in  that  doubt :  did  he  still  love  Louise  ? — or  had 
he  forgotten  her  and  returned  to  the  old  affections  of  his 
early  youth  ?  However,  as  she  thus  thought  of  giving  Lazare 
up  rather  than  make  him  unhappy  her  heart  sank,  for, 
though  she  trusted  she  would  have  the  courage  to  do  so,  if 
necessary,  she  hoped  she  would  die  soon  afterwards. 

Ever  since  her  aunt's  death  an  impulse  of  generosity  had 
moved  her  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between  herself 
and  Louise.  Chanteau  might  write  to  Louise,  and  she  herself 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  199 

would  just  add  a  line  to  say  that  she  had  forgotten  what  had 
happened.  They  all  felt  so  lonely  and  dull  that  the  other's 
presence  would  distract  them  from  their  gloomy  thoughts. 
Since  the  terrible  shock  of  her  aunt's  death,  all  that  had 
happened  previously  seemed  very  far  away,  and  Pauline  had 
often  regretted  that  she  had  behaved  so  violently.  Yet, 
whenever  she  thought  of  speaking  to  her  uncle  on  the  subject, 
a  feeling  of  repugnance  held  her  back.  Wouldn't  it  mean 
imperilling  the  future,  tempting  Lazare,  and  perhaps  losing 
him  altogether?  However,  perhaps  she  might  still  have 
found  courage  and  pride  enough  to  subject  him  to  this  risk, 
if  her  sense  of  justice  had  not  risen  in  revolt  against  it.  It 
was  the  treason  alone  that  seemed  to  her  so  unpardonable. 
And  then,  again,  was  she  not  capable  of  restoring  happiness 
and  life  to  the  house  ?  Why  call  in  a  stranger,  when  she 
was  conscious  that  she  herself  was  brimming  over  with 
willing  devotion  and  affection  ?  Without  being  aware  of  it, 
there  was  a  touch  of  pride  in  her  abnegation,  and  she  was 
a  little  jealous  in  her  devotion.  She  yearned  to  be  her 
relatives'  one  and  only  solace. 

From  this  time  all  Pauline's  endeavours  were  turned  in 
that  direction.  She  laid  herself  out  in  every  way  to  make 
those  about  her  cheerful  and  happy.  Never  before  had  she 
shown  herself  so  persistently  cheerful  and  kindly.  Every 
morning  she  came  down  with  a  bright  smile  and  a  fixed 
determination  to  conceal  her  own  griefs  in  order  that  she 
might  do  nothing  to  add  to  those  of  others.  Her  gentle 
amiability  seemed  to  set  all  troubles  at  defiance,  and  she 
possessed  a  sweet  evenness  of  disposition  which  disarmed  all 
feeling  against  her.  She  was  now  in  perfect  health  again, 
strong  and  sound  as  a  young  tree,  and  the  happiness  that  she 
spread  around  her  was  the  emanation  of  her  own  healthy 
brightness.  The  arrival  of  each  fresh  day  delighted  her,  and 
she  found  a  pleasure  in  doing  what  she  had  done  the  day 
before,  perfectly  contented  and  quiet  in  mind,  and  looking 
forward  to  the  morrow  without  any  touch  of  feverish  expecta- 
tion. Though  V6ronique  went  on  muttering  in  her  kitchen, 
and  indulged  in  strange  and  inexplicable  caprices,  a  fresh 
burst  of  life  was  driving  all  mournfulness  from  the  house ; 
the  merry  laughter  of  former  days  rang  through  the  rooms 
and  echoed  up  the  staircase.  Chanteau  himself  seemed 
particularly  delighted  by  the  change,  for  the  gloominess  of 
the  house  had  always  weighed  on  him.  Existence,  in  his 


200  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

case,  had  really  become  abominable,  yet  he  clung  to  it  with 
the  desperate  clutch  of  a  sick  man  who  holds  dearly  to  life, 
though  it  be  but  pain  to  him.  Every  day  that  he  managed 
to  live  seemed  to  be  a  victory  achieved,  and  his  niece  appeared 
to  him  to  brighten  and  warm  the  house  like  a  beam  of  sun- 
light, beneath  whose  rays  death  could  not  lay  its  chilly 
touch  upon  him. 

Pauline,  however,  had  one  source  of  trouble.  Lazare 
seemed  proof  against  all  her  attempts  to  console  him,  and 
she  grew  distressed  as  she  saw  him  falling  again  into  a 
sombre  mood.  Lurking  behind  his  grief  for  his  mother, 
there  was  a  revival  of  his  terror  of  death.  Now  that  the 
lapse  of  time  was  beginning  to  mitigate  his  original  sorrow, 
this  terror  of  death  asserted  all  its  old  sway  over  him, 
heightened  by  the  fear  of  hereditary  disease.  He  felt  sure 
that  he  too  would  succumb  to  some  derangement  of  his 
heart,  and  he  brooded  over  the  certainty  of  a  speedy  and 
tragic  end.  He  was  constantly  listening  to  the  sounds  of 
life  within  him,  observing,  in  a  state  of  nervous  excitement, 
the  working  of  his  stomach,  kidneys,  and  liver ;  but  it  was 
particularly  his  heart-beats  which  absorbed  him.  If  he  laid 
his  elbow  upon  the  table,  he  heard  his  heart  beating  in  his 
elbow  ;  if  he  rested  his  neck  against  the  back  of  a  chair,  he 
heard  it  throbbing  there  ;  if  he  sat  down,  if  he  went  to  bed, 
he  heard  it  beating  in  his  thighs,  his  sides,  his  stomach ;  and 
ever  and  ever  its  throbbing  seemed  to  him  to  be  telling  out 
his  life  like  a  clock  that  is  running  down.  Dazed  by  this 
constant  study  of  his  organism,  he  perpetually  alarmed  him- 
self with  the  fear  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down. 
All  his  organs  were  worn  out,  he  fancied,  and  his  heart,  which 
disease  had  distended  to  a  monstrous  size,  was  about  to  rend 
his  frame  in  pieces  by  its  hammer-like  beating. 

In  this  way  Lazare's  mental  sufferings  went  on  increas- 
ing. For  many  years,  every  night  as  he  lay  down  in  bed 
the  thought  of  death  had  frozen  him  to  the  marrow,  and  now 
he  dared  not  go  to  sleep,  racked  as  he  was  with  the  fear  of 
never  awaking.  Sleep  was  hateful  to  him,  and  he  experienced 
all  the  horror  of  dying  as  he  felt  himself  growing  drowsy, 
falling  into  the  unconsciousness  of  slumber.  His  sudden 
waking  gave  him  still  a  greater  shock,  dragging  him  out  of 
black  darkness,  as  though  some  giant  hand  had  clutched  him 
by  the  hair  and  hurled  him  back  into  life  again,  shivering  and 
stammering  with  horror  of  the  mysterious  unknown  through 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  201 

which  he  had  passed.  He  clasped  his  hands  convulsively,  more 
desperate  and  panic-stricken  than  ever  at  the  thought  that  he 
must  die.  He  suffered  such  torture  every  night  that  he  pre- 
ferred not  to  go  to  bed.  He  found  that  he  could  lie  down  on 
the  sofa  and  sleep  in  the  daytime  in  perfect  peace,  and  it  was 
probably  that  heavy  slumber  during  the  day  which  made  his 
nights  so  terrible.  By  degrees  he  gave  over  going  to  bed  at 
night  at  all,  preferring  his  long  siestas  of  the  afternoon,  and 
afterwards  only  dozing  off  towards  daybreak,  when  the  fear 
of  darkness  was  driven  away. 

He  had,  however,  intervals  of  calmness,  and  at  times  he 
would  remain  free  from  his  haunting  fears  of  death  for  two 
or  three  nights  in  succession.  One  day  Pauline  found  an 
almanack  in  his  room,  dotted  over  with  red  ink.  She  asked 
him  the  meaning  of  the  marks. 

'  What  have  you  marked  it  for  like  this  ?  Why  are  all 
those  days  dotted  ?  ' 

'  I  haven't  marked  anything,'  he  stammered.  '  I  know 
nothing  about  it.' 

Then  his  cousin  said  gaily  :  '  I  thought  it  was  only  girls 
who  trusted  to  their  diaries  things  that  they  wouldn't  tell 
anyone  else.  If  you  have  been  thinking  about  us  on  all  the 
days  you  have  marked,  it  is  very  nice  of  you  indeed.  Ah  !  I 
see  you  have  secrets  now  1 ' 

However,  as  she  saw  him  become  more  and  more  dis- 
turbed, she  was  good-natured  enough  to  press  him  no  further. 
On  the  young  man's  pale  brow  she  saw  the  shadow  which 
she  knew  so  well,  the  shadow  left  by  that  secret  trouble  which 
she  seemed  powerless  to  alleviate. 

For  some  time  past  he  had  also  been  astonishing  her  by 
fresh  eccentricities.  Possessed  by  a  firm  conviction  that 
his  end  was  close  at  hand,  he  never  left  a  room,  or  closed  a 
book,  or  used  anything  without  thinking  that  it  was  the  last 
time  he  would  do  so,  and  that  he  would  never  again  see 
the  thing  he  had  used,  the  book  he  had  closed,  or  the  room  he 
had  left ;  and  he  had  thus  contracted  a  habit  of  bidding 
continual  farewells,  yielding  to  a  morbid  craving  to  take  up  and 
handle  different  objects  that  he  might  see  them  once  more. 
With  all  this  were  mingled  certain  ideas  of  symmetry.  He 
would  take  three  steps  to  the  right  and  then  as  many  to  the 
left,  and  touch  the  different  articles  of  furniture  on  either  side 
of  a  window  or  door  the  same  number  of  times.  And  beneath 
this  there  lurked  the  superstitious  fancy  that  a  certain  number 


202  THE  JO  3-    OF  LIFE 

of  teachings,  some  five  or  seven,  for  instance,  distributed  in  a 
particular  fashion,  would  prevent  the  farewell  from  being  a 
final  one.  In  spite  of  his  keen  intelligence  and  his  denial  of 
the  supernatural,  he  carried  out  these  foolish  superstitious 
practices  with  animal-like  docility,  though  trying  to  hide  them 
as  though  they  were  some  shameful  failing.  This  was  the 
revenge  taken  by  the  deranged  nervous  system  of  this  pessi- 
mist and  positivist,  who  declared  that  he  believed  only  in 
what  was  actually  known.  He  was  becoming  quite  a  nuisance, 
though. 

'  Why  are  you  pacing  up  and  down  like  that  ? '  Pauline 
cried  at  times.  '  That's  three  times  you've  gone  up  to  that 
cupboard  and  touched  the  key.  It  won't  run  off ! ' 

In  the  evening  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  never  be  able 
to  get  away  from  the  dining-room.  He  arranged  all  the 
chairs  in  a  certain  order,  tapped  the  door  a  particular  number 
of  times,  and  then  entered  the  room  again  to  lay  his  hands, 
first  the  right  and  then  the  left,  on  his  grandfather's  master- 
piece. Pauline,  who  waited  for  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
at  last  broke  out  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

'  What  idiotic  behaviour  for  a  man  of  twenty-four !  Where 
is  the  sense,  I  should  like  to  know,  in  touching  things  in  that 
Way?' 

But  after  a  time  she  ceased  to  make  a  jest  of  him,  for  she 
felt  much  distressed  by  his  disquietude.  One  morning  she 
surprised  him  kissing — seven  times  in  succession — the  frame- 
work of  the  bed  on  which  his  mother  had  died.  The  sight 
filled  her  with  alarm,  and  she  began  to  guess  the  torments 
which  embittered  his  existence.  When  she  saw  him  turn 
pale  as  he  came  upon  a  reference  to  the  twentieth  century  in 
a  newspaper,  she  gave  him  a  compassionate  glance  which 
made  him  turn  his  head  aside.  He  recognised  that  she 
understood  him,  and  he  rushed  off  and  hid  himself  in  his  own 
room,  all  shame  and  confusion.  Over  and  over  again  did  he 
upbraid  himself  as  a  coward,  and  swear  that  he  would  resist 
the  influence  of  this  weakness.  He  would  argue  with  him- 
self and  bring  himself  to  look  death  in  the  face,  and  then  in 
a  spirit  of  bravado,  instead  of  passing  the  night  awake  on 
his  couch,  he  would  quickly  undress  and  jump  into  bed. 
Death,  he  would  then  say  to  himself,  might  come  and  would 
be  welcome ;  he  would  await  it  there  as  deliverance.  But 
immediately  the  throbbing  of  his  heart  drove  all  his  oaths 
away,  an  icy  breath  seemed  to  freeze  his  bones,  and  he 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  203 

frantically  stretched  out  his  hands  as  he  broke  into  a  despair- 
ing cry  of  '  0  God !  God ! '  It  was  these  terrible  backslidings 
which  filled  him  with  shame  and  despair.  His  cousin's  tender 
pity,  too,  only  served  to  overwhelm  him.  The  days  grew  so 
heavy  that  as  he  saw  them  begin  he  scarcely  dared  to  hope 
that  they  would  ever  end.  In  this  gradual  decay  of  his 
vitality,  his  cheerfulness  had  been  the  first  to  depart,  and  now 
physical  strength  seemed  to  be  failing  him  in  its  turn. 

Pauline,  however,  in  the  pride  of  her  self-devotion,  was 
determined  to  gain  the  victory.  She  recognised  the  source 
of  her  cousin's  disease,  and  tried  to  impart  to  him  some  of 
her  own  courage  by  giving  him  a  love  of  life.  But  her 
compassionate  kindliness  seemed  to  receive  a  continual  check. 
At  first  she  made  open  attacks  upon  him  with  her  old  jests 
and  jokes  about  '  that  silly,  stupid  pessimism.'  '  What ! ' 
she  said,  '  was  it  she  now  who  had  to  chant  the  praises  of 
the  great  Saint  Schopenhauer,  while  he,  like  all  the  hum- 
bugging pessimists,  was  quite  willing  to  see  the  world  blown 
to  pieces,  but  refused  to  be  blown  up  himself  ?  '  These  jests 
wrung  a  constrained  smile  from  the  young  man,  but  he 
seemed  to  suffer  from  them  so  much  that  she  did  not  persist 
in  them.  She  next  tried  the  effect  of  such  caressing  consola- 
tions as  might  be  lavished  upon  a  child,  and  encompassed 
him  with  cheerful  amiability  and  placid  laughter.  She 
always  let  him  see  her  beaming  with  happiness  and  revelling 
in  the  pleasantness  of  life.  The  house  seemed  full  of  sun- 
shine. There  was  nothing  more  required  of  him  than  to 
take  advantage  of  it  and  let  his  life  flow  quietly  on,  but  this 
he  could  not  do ;  the  happiness  that  was  offered  to  him  only 
made  his  feeling  of  horror  at  what  was  to  come  hereafter 
all  the  keener.  Then  Pauline  tried  stratagem,  and  racked 
her  brain  to  promote  enthusiasm  in  something  or  other  which 
might  have  the  effect  of  making  him  forget  himself.  But 
his  idleness  had  become  a  sort  of  disease  ;  he  had  no  inclina- 
tion for  anything  whatever,  and  found  even  reading  too 
great  an  exertion,  so  that  he  spent  his  whole  time  in  gnawing 
at  himself. 

For  a  moment  Pauline  had  a  glimpse  of  hope.  They  had 
gone  one  day  for  a  short  walk  on  the  sands,  when  Lazare,  as 
they  reached  the  ruins  of  the  stockades,  a  few  of  the  beams 
of  which  were  still  standing  upright,  began  to  explain  a 
new  system  of  protective  works  which,  he  assured  her, 
could  not  fail  to  prove  successful.  The  collapse  of  the  former 


204  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

ones  had  been  caused  by  the  weakness  of  the  supporting 
timbers.  It  would  only  be  necessary  to  double  their  thickness 
and  to  give  a  greater  inclination  to  the  central  beams.  His 
voice  vibrated  and  his  eyes  lighted  up  with  all  his  old 
enthusiasm  as  he  spoke,  and  his  cousin  besought  him  to 
take  up  the  task  again  and  make  another  effort.  The 
village  was  gradually  being  destroyed  ;  every  high  tide  swept 
away  a  further  portion  of  it ;  and  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that,  if  he  went  to  see  the  Prefect,  he  would  succeed  in 
obtaining  the  subvention,  while  she  herself  would  be  only 
too  glad  to  make  further  advances  in  order  to  assist  such  a 
noble  work.  She  was  so  anxious  fco  spur  him  into  action 
that  she  would  willingly  have  sacrificed  the  remains  of  her 
fortune  to  bring  about  that  end.  But  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  What  would  be  the  good  of  it,  he  asked  ?  He 
turned  pale  as  the  thought  struck  him  that,  if  he  were  to 
commence  the  work,  he  would  be  dead  before  he  could  finish 
it ;  and,  to  hide  the  perturbation  which  this  reflection  caused 
him,  he  began  to  inveigh  against  the  Bonneville  fishermen. 

'  A  pack  of  grinning  idiots,  who  jeered  at  me  when  that 
wolfish  sea  swept  everything  away !  No  !  no  !  they  may  do 
things  for  themselves  now !  I  won't  give  them  another 
chance  of  laughing  at  my  "  bits  of  sticks,"  as  they  called  them.' 

Pauline  tried  to  soothe  him.  The  poor  folk  were  in  a 
terrible  state  of  wretchedness.  Since  the  sea  had  carried  off 
the  Houtelards'  house,  the  most  solidly  built  of  all  the  village, 
together  with  three  others,  cottages  of  the  poorer  fishermen, 
their  misery  had  increased.  Houtelard,  who  had  once  been 
the  rich  man  of  the  district,  had  now  taken  up  his  quarters 
in  an  old  barn,  some  twenty  yards  behind  his  former  dwelling ; 
but  the  others,  who  had  no  such  refuge,  were  housing  them- 
selves in  clumsy  huts  made  out  of  the  shells  of  old  boats. 
They  were  living  in  a  miserable  state  of  nudity  and  promis- 
cuousness  ;  the  women  and  children  were  wallowing  in  vice 
and  vermin.  All  that  was  bestowed  upon  them  in  charity 
went  in  drink.  The  wretched  creatures  sold  all  the  food  that 
was  given  them,  with  their  clothes,  pots,  and  pans,  and  what 
little  furniture  they  had  left,  in  order  to  buy  drams  of  the 
terrible  'calvados,'  which  stretched  them  on  the  ground  across 
their  doorways  like  so  many  corpses.  Pauline  was  the  only 
one  who  still  continued  to  say  a  word  for  them.  Abbe"  Horteur 
had  given  them  up,  and  Chanteau  talked  of  sending  in  his 
resignation,  being  unwilling  to  remain  any  longer  the  Mayor 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  205 

of  such  a  drove  of  swine.  Lazare,  too,  when  his  cousin 
tried  to  excite  his  pity  on  behalf  of  that  little  colony  of 
drunkards,  beaten  down  by  the  fierceness  of  the  elements, 
only  repeated  his  father's  eternal  refrain  : 

'  No  one  compels  them  to  remain  here.  All  that  they  have 
to  do  is  to  go  elsewhere.  Only  a  pack  of  idiots  would  come 
and  stick  themselves  right  under  the  waves.' 

This  was  the  general  feeling  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 
everyone  looked  upon  the  Bonneville  folk  as  obstinate  fools. 
The  villagers,  on  the  other  hand,  were  mistrustfully  un- 
willing to  go  elsewhere.  They  had  been  born  there,  they 
said,  and  why  should  they  have  to  leave  the  place  ?  The 
same  sort  of  thing  had  been  going  on  for  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  years,  and  there  was  nothing  for  them  to  do 
anywhere  else.  Prouane,  when  he  was  exceptionally  tipsy, 
always  concluded  by  saying  that  wherever  they  might  go  they 
would  always  be  devoured  by  something  or  other. 

Pauline  used  to  smile  at  this  and  nod  her  head  in  approval, 
for  happiness,  in  her  opinion,  depended  neither  upon  people 
nor  circumstances,  but  on  the  more  or  less  reasonable  way  in 
which  people  conformed  themselves  to  their  circumstances. 
She  redoubled  her  care  and  attention,  and  distributed  still 
larger  doles  and  alms  than  before.  At  last  she  was  able  to 
induce  Lazare  to  associate  himself  with  her  in  her  charities ; 
she  hoped  that  she  might  thereby  rouse  him  from  his  gloomy 
broodings,  and  lead  him  to  forget  his  own  troubles  by  awaking 
in  him  pity  for  those  of  others.  Every  Saturday  afternoon 
he  remained  at  home  with  her,  and  from  four  o'clock  till  six 
they  received  the  young  folk  from  the  village,  the  ragged 
draggle-tail  urchins  whom  their  parents  sent  up  to  get  what 
they  could  out  of  Mademoiselle  Pauline.  It  was  an  invasion 
of  snivelling  little  lads  and  dirty  little  girls. 

One  Saturday  it  was  raining,  and  Pauline  could  not  dis- 
tribute her  alms  on  the  terrace,  as  was  her  custom.  Lazare 
had  to  fetch  a  bench  and  place  it  in  the  kitchen. 

'  Good  gracious,  sir ! '  Veronique  exclaimed.  '  Surely 
Mademoiselle  Pauline  isn't  going  to  bring  all  that  dirty  lot 
in  here  ?  It's  a  nice  idea,  indeed ;  if  they  do  come,  I  won't 
answer  for  the  state  of  the  soup.' 

At  that  moment  the  girl  entered  the  kitchen  with  her  bag 
of  silver  and  her  medicine-chest.  She  merrily  replied  to 
Veronique's  indignant  outburst : 

'  Oh  !  a  turn  of  your  broom  will  make  things  all  right 


206  THE  fOY  OF  LIFE 

again ;  and,  besides,  it's  raining  so  heavily  that  they  will 
have  had  a  good  washing  before  they  come  in,  poor  little 
things  I ' 

And,  indeed,  the  cheeks  of  the  first  to  enter  were  quite 
bright  and  rosy  from  the  downpour.  They  were  so  soaked 
that  pools  of  water  trickled  from  their  ragged  clothes  on  to 
the  tiles  of  the  kitchen-floor,  thereby  increasing  the  servant's 
wrath,  which  was  by  no  means  diminished  when  Pauline 
told  her  to  light  a  faggot  of  wood  to  dry  them  a  little.  The 
bench  was  carried  near  the  fire,  and  was  soon  occupied  by  a 
shivering  row  of  impudent,  leering  brats,  who  cast  greedy 
eyes  at  what  was  lying  about — some  half-emptied  wine-bottles, 
the  remains  of  a  joint,  and  a  bunch  of  carrots  lying  on  a 
block. 

'  Children  indeed ! '  Ve'ronique  went  on  growling.  '  Child- 
ren that  are  grown  up  and  ought  to  be  earning  their  own 
living.  They'll  go  on  pretending  to  be  children  till  they're 
five-and-twenty,  if  only  you'll  let  them  ! ' 

But  Pauline  bade  her  be  silent. 

'There!  have  you  done  now?  Talking  like  that  won't 
fill  their  mouths  or  help  them  to  grow  up.' 

The  girl  sat  down  at  the  table,  with  her  money  and  the 
other  articles  she  intended  to  distribute  in  front  of  her; 
and  she  was  just  about  to  call  the  children  to  her  in  turn, 
when  Lazare,  who  had  remained  standing,  caught  sight  of 
Houtelard's  boy  amongst  the  other  youngsters,  and  shouted 
out : 

'Didn't  I  forbid  you  to  come  here  again,  you  young 
vulture  ?  Your  parents  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves 
for  sending  you  here,  for  they  are  quite  able  to  feed  you, 
whereas  there  are  so  many  others  who  are  dying  of  hunger.' 

Houtelard's  son,  an  overgrown  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a  timid 
and  sad  expression,  began  to  cry. 

'  They  beat  me  if  I  don't  come,'  he  said.  '  The  missis 
got  hold  of  the  rope  and  father  drove  me  out.' 

He  turned  up  his  sleeve  to  show  a  big  violet  bruise  on  his 
arm  which  had  been  caused  by  a  blow  from  a  piece  of  knotted 
rope.  The  '  missis '  was  the  old  servant  whom  the  lad's 
father  had  married,  and  who  was  gradually  killing  the  boy  by 
her  ill-treatment.  Since  the  loss  of  their  house,  their  harsh- 
ness and  miserly  filthiness  had  increased,  and  now  their  home 
was  a  perfect  pigsty,  where  they  tortured  the  lad,  as  if  to 
revenge  themselves  for  their  misfortunes  on  him. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  207 

'  Put  an  arnica  compress  on  his  arm,'  said  Pauline  softly 
to  Lazare. 

Then  she  herself  gave  the  lad  a  five-franc  piece.  '  Here  ! 
give  them  this  so  that  they  shan't  beat  you  any  more,  and  tell 
them  that  if  they  strike  you  again,  and  if  there  are  any 
bruises  on  your  body  next  Saturday,  they  will  never  get 
another  sou  out  of  me.' 

All  along  the  bench  the  other  children,  cheered  by  the 
warming  blaze,  were  now  tittering  and  digging  each  other  in 
the  ribs  with  their  elbows.  One  tiny  little  thing  had  stolen 
a  carrot  and  was  munching  it  furtively. 

'  Come  here,  Cuche ! '  said  Pauline.  '  Have  you  told  your 
mother  that  I  hope  to  get  her  admitted  very  soon  into  the 
Hospital  for  Incurables  at  Bayeux  ? ' 

Cuche's  wife,  a  miserable  abandoned  woman,  had  broken 
her  leg  in  July,  and  had  remained  infirm  ever  since. 

'  Yes,  I  told  her,'  the  lad  replied  in  a  hoarse  voice ;  '  but 
she  says  she  won't  go.' 

He  had  grown  into  a  strong  young  fellow,  and  was  now 
nearly  seventeen  years  old.  With  his  hands  hanging  at  his 
sides,  he  swayed  about  in  an  awkward  manner. 

'  What !  She  won't  go  ! '  cried  Lazare.  '  And  you  won't 
come,  either ;  for  I  told  you  to  come  up  this  week  and  help  a 
little  in  the  garden,  and  I'm  still  waiting  for  you.' 

The  lad  still  swayed  himself  about.  '  I  haven't  had  any 
time,'  he  replied. 

At  this  Pauline,  seeing  her  cousin  about  to  lose  his 
temper,  interposed  and  said  to  the  lad : 

'  Sit  down  again  now,  and  we  will  speak  about  it  presently. 
Just  reflect  a  little  or  you  will  make  me  angry  too.' 

It  was  next  the  turn  of  the  Gonins'  little  girl.  She  was 
thirteen  years  old,  and  still  had  a  pretty  rosy  face  beneath  a 
mop  of  fair  hair.  Without  waiting  to  be  questioned,  she 
poured  out  a  flood  of  prattle,  telling  them  how  her  father's 
paralysis  was  ascending  to  his  arms  and  even  his  tongue, 
and  that  he  could  now  only  grunt  like  an  animal.  Cousin 
Cuche,  the  sailor  who  had  deserted  his  wife  and  installed 
himself  in  Gonin's  house,  had  made  a  violent  attack  upon 
the  old  man  that  very  morning,  in  the  hope  of  finishing 
him  off. 

'  Mother  sets  on  him  too.  She  gets  up  at  night  and 
empties  bowls  of  cold  water  over  father,  because  he  snores  so 
loud  and  disturbs  her.  If  you  could  only  see  what  a  state 


2o8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

they  have  left  him  in,  Mademoiselle  Pauline !  He  is  quite 
naked,  and  he  wants  some  sheets  very  badly,  for  all  his  skin 
is  getting  grazed  and  peeling  off ! ' 

'  There  !  That  will  do  ;  hold  your  tongue !  '  said  Lazare, 
interrupting  her  chatter ;  while  Pauline,  moved  to  pity,  sent 
Ve"ronique  off  to  look  out  a  pair  of  sheets. 

Lazare  considered  the  girl  much  too  wide-awake  for  her 
age,  and  he  believed  that,  although  she  did  perhaps  sometimes 
ward  off  a  blow  meant  for  her  father,  she  treated  him  in  the 
long  run  no  better  than  the  others  did.  Moreover,  he  felt 
quite  sure  that  whatever  was  given  to  her,  whether  it  was 
money,  or  meat,  or  bed-linen,  instead  of  being  of  any  service 
to  the  infirm  old  man,  would  only  serve  for  the  gratification 
of  his  wife  and  cousin  Cuche. 

He  began  to  question  her  sternly,  for  he  had  seen  her 
gadding  about  with  several  lads  of  the  neighbourhood. 
However,  Pauline  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  for  the  other 
children,  even  the  youngest  amongst  them,  were  sniggering 
and  smiling  with  all  the  impudence  of  precocious  vice.  How 
was  it  possible  to  arrest  that  spreading  rottenness  when  the 
men  and  women  set  so  bad  an  example  ?  When  Pauline  had 
given  the  girl  a  pair  of  sheets  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  she 
whispered  to  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  trying  to  frighten  her 
as  to  the  consequences  which  might  result  from  misbehaviour. 
Warnings  of  this  kind  were  the  only  ones  that  might  hold 
her  in  check. 

Meantime  Lazare,  wishing  to  hasten  the  distribution,  the 
length  of  which  was  beginning  to  disgust  and  irritate  him, 
called  up  Prouane's  daughter. 

'  Your  father  and  mother  were  tipsy  again  last  night,' 
he  said,  '  and  I  hear  that  you  were  worse  than  either  of 
them.' 

'  Oh  !  no,  sir  !     I  had  a  very  bad  headache.' 

He  placed  before  her  a  plate  in  which  were  a  few  pieces  of 
raw  meat. 

'  Eat  that ! ' 

She  was  devoured  with  scrofula  again,  and  her  nervous  dis- 
orders had  reappeared.  Drunkenness  increased  her  precocious 
infirmities,  for  she  had  acquired  the  habit  of  drinking  with 
her  parents.  When  she  had  swallowed  three  lumps  of  the 
meat,  she  stopped  and  made  a  grimace  of  disgust. 

1  I've  had  enough  ;  I  can't  eat  any  more.' 

But  Pauline  had  taken  up  a  bottle. 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  209 

'  Very  well,'  she  said  !  '  if  you  don't  eat  the  meat,  you 
shan't  have  your  glass  of  quinine  wine.' 

On  hearing  this,  the  girl  fixed  her  glistening  eyes  on  the 
glass,  which  Pauline  filled,  and  overcame  her  repugnance 
against  the  meat.  Then  she  seized  the  glass  and  tossed  its 
contents  down  her  throat  with  all  a  drunkard's  knowing  readi- 
ness. But  she  did  not  then  retire ;  she  begged  Pauline  to 
let  her  take  the  bottle  away  with  her,  saying  that  it  interfered 
too  much  with  what  she  had  to  do  to  come  up  to  the  house 
every  day  ;  and  she  promised  to  take  the  bottle  to  bed  with 
her,  and  to  keep  it  so  securely  hidden  that  her  father  and 
mother  would  never  be  able  to  find  it  and  drink  the  wine. 
Pauline,  however,  refused  to  let  her  have  it. 

'  You'd  swallow  every  drop  of  it  before  you  got  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,'  said  Lazare.  'It's  yourself  that  we 
suspect  now,  you  little  wine-cask  ! ' 

One  by  one  the  children  left  the  bench  to  receive  money, 
or  bread,  or  meat.  Some  of  them,  after  receiving  their  share 
of  the  distribution,  seemed  inclined  to  linger  before  the  blaz- 
ing fire,  but  Veronique,  who  had  just  noticed  that  half  her 
carrots  had  been  devoured,  drove  them  off  pitilessly  into  the 
rain.  "  Had  anyone  ever  seen  anything  like  it  before  ?  "  she 
cried.  "  Carrots,  too,  that  still  had  all  the  earth  sticking  to 
them ! " 

Soon  there  was  no  one  left  but  young  Cuche,  who  looked 
very  depressed  in  the  expectation  of  receiving  a  severe  lecture 
from  Pauline.  She  called  him  to  her,  spoke  to  him  for  a 
long  time  in  low  tones,  and  finished  by  giving  him  his  loaf 
and  the  hundred  sous  which  he  received  from  her  every 
Saturday.  Then  he  went  off,  with  his  clumsy  swaying,  having 
duly  promised  to  work,  but  having  no  intention  whatever  of 
doing  anything  of  the  kind. 

The  servant  was  just  giving  a  sigh  of  relief  when  she 
suddenly  exclaimed : 

'  Hallo  !  they  haven't  all  gone  yet,  then !  There's  one  of 
them  over  there  in  the  corner  still ! ' 

It  was  the  Tourmals'  little  girl,  the  little  abortion  of  the 
high  roads,  who,  notwithstanding  her  ten  years,  was  still 
quite  a  dwarf.  It  was  only  in  shamelessness  and  effrontery 
that  she  seemed  to  grow,  and  she  groaned  more  miserably 
and  seemed  more  wretched  than  ever,  trained  for  the  profes- 
sion of  begging  from  her  cradle,  just  as  some  infants  have 
their  bones  manipulated  in  order  that  they  may  become 

p 


210  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

acrobats.  She  crouched  between  the  dresser  and  the  fire- 
place, as  though  she  had  stowed  herself  in  that  corner  for 
fear  of  being  surprised  in  some  wrong-doing. 

'  What  are  you  up  to  there  ? '  Pauline  asked  her. 

'  I  am  warming  myself.' 

V6ronique  cast  an  anxious  glance  round  her  kitchen.  On 
previous  Saturdays,  even  when  the  children  had  assembled  on 
the  terrace,  various  little  articles  had  disappeared.  That  day, 
however,  everything  seemed  in  its  place,  and  the  little  girl, 
who  had  hurriedly  risen  to  her  feet,  began  to  deafen  them 
with  her  shrill  voice : 

'  Father  is  in  the  hospital,  and  grandfather  has  hurt  him- 
self at  his  work,  and  mother  hasn't  a  gown  to  go  out  in. 
Please  have  pity  upon  us,  kind  young  lady ' 

'  Do  you  want  to  split  our  ears,  you  little  liar  ?  '  Lazare 
cried  angrily.  '  Your  father  is  in  gaol  for  smuggling,  and 
when  your  grandfather  sprained  his  wrist  he  was  robbing  the 
oyster-beds  at  Roqueboise,  and,  if  your  mother  hasn't  got  a 
dress,  she  must  manage  to  go  out  stealing  in  her  chemise,  for 
she  is  charged  with  having  strangled  five  fowls  belonging  to 
the  innkeeper  at  Verchemont.  Do  you  think  you  can  befool 
us  with  your  lies  about  matters  that  we  know  more  of  than 
you  do  yourself  ? ' 

The  child  did  not  even  appear  to  have  heard  him.  She 
went  on  immediately  with  all  her  impudent  coolness  : 

'  Have  pity  upon  us,  kind  young  lady !  My  father  and 
grandfather  are  both  ill,  and  my  mother  dare  not  leave  them. 
God  Almighty  will  bless  you  for  it.' 

'  There  !  that  will  do  !  Now  go  away  and  don't  tell  any 
more  lies  ! '  Pauline  said  to  her,  giving  her  a  piece  of  money 
to  get  rid  of  her. 

She  did  not  want  telling  twice,  but  hurried  from  the 
kitchen  and  through  the  yard  as  quickly  as  her  little  legs 
would  carry  her.  Just  at  that  moment  the  servant  uttered 
a  cry : 

'  Ah !  the  cup  that  was  on  the  dresser  1  She's  gone  off 
with  your  cup,  Mademoiselle  Pauline  ! ' 

Then  she  bolted  off  in  pursuit  of  the  young  thief,  and  a 
couple  of  minutes  afterwards  dragged  her  back  into  the  kitchen 
with  all  the  stern  ferocity  of  a  gendarme.  It  was  as  much  as 
they  could  do  to  search  the  child,  for  she  struggled  and  bit 
and  scratched  and  screamed  as  though  they  were  trying  to 
murder  her.  The  cup  was  not  in  her  pocket,  but  they  dis- 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  2 1 1 

covered  it  next  to  her  skin,  hidden  away  in  the  rag  which  served 
her  as  a  chemise.  Thereupon  ceasing  to  weep,  she  impudently 
asserted  that  she  did  not  know  it  was  there,  that  it  must  have 
dropped  into  her  clothes  while  she  was  sitting  on  the  floor. 

'  His  reverence  was  quite  right  when  he  said  she  would 
rob  you  ! '  Veronique  exclaimed.  '  If  I  were  you  I  would 
send  for  the  police.' 

Lazare,  too,  began  to  speak  about  sending  her  to  prison, 
provoked  as  he  was  by  the  demeanour  of  the  girl,  who  perked 
herself  up  like  a  young  viper  whose  tail  had  been  trodden 
upon.  He  felt  inclined  to  smack  her. 

'  Hand  back  the  money  that  was  given  to  you ! '  he  cried. 
'  Where  is  it  ? ' 

The  child  had  already  raised  the  coin  to  her  lips  in  order 
to  swallow  it,  when  Pauline  set  her  free,  saying : 

'  Well,  you  may  keep  it  this  time,  but  you  can  tell  them 
at  home  that  it  is  the  last  they  will  get.  In  future  I  shall 
come  myself  to  see  what  you  are  in  need  of.  Now,  be  off 
with  you  1  ' 

They  could  hear  the  girl's  naked  feet  splashing  through 
the  puddles,  and  then  all  became  silent.  Veronique  pushed 
the  bench  aside  and  stooped  down  to  sponge  away  the  pools 
of  water  that  had  trickled  from  the  children's  rags.  Her 
kitchen  was  in  a  fine  state,  she  grumbled ;  it  reeked  of  all  that 
filth  to  such  a  degree  that  she  would  have  to  keep  all  the 
windows  and  doors  open.  Pauline,  who  seemed  very  grave, 
gathered  up  her  money  and  drugs  without  saying  a  word, 
while  Lazare,  with  an  air  of  disgust  and  ennui,  went  out  to 
wash  his  hands  at  the  yard  tap. 

It  was  great  grief  to  Pauline  to  see  that  her  cousin  took 
but  little  interest  in  her  young  friends  from  the  village. 
Though  he  was  willing  to  help  her  on  the  Saturday  after- 
noons, it  was  only  out  of  mere  complaisance ;  his  heart  was 
not  in  the  work.  Whereas  neither  poverty  nor  vice  repelled 
her,  their  hideousness  depressed  and  annoyed  Lazare.  She 
could  remain  cheerful  and  tranquil  in  her  love  for  others, 
whereas  he  could  not  cease  to  think  of  himself  without  find- 
ing fresh  reasons  for  gloomy  broodings.  Little  by  little,  those 
disorderly,  ill-behaved  children,  in  whom  all  the  sins  of 
grown-up  men  and  women  were  already  fermenting,  began  to 
cause  him  real  suffering.  The  sight  of  them  proved  like  an 
additional  blight  to  his  existence,  and  when  he  left  them  he 
felt  hopeless,  weary,  full  of  hatred  and  disgust  of  the  human 

p2 


212  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

species.  The  hours  that  were  spent  in  good  works  only 
hardened  him,  made  him  deny  the  utility  of  almsgiving  and 
jeer  at  charity.  He  protested  that  it  would  be  far  more  sensible 
to  crush  that  nest  of  pernicious  vermin  under  foot  than  to  help 
the  young  ones  to  grow  up.  Pauline  listened  to  this,  sur- 
prised by  his  violence,  and  pained  to  find  how  different  were 
their  views. 

That  Saturday,  when  they  were  alone  again,  the  young 
man  revealed  all  his  suffering  by  a  single  remark. 

'  I  feel  as  though  I  had  just  come  out  of  a  sewer,'  said 
he.  Then  he  added :  '  How  can  you  care  for  such  horrible 
monsters  ? ' 

'  I  care  for  them  for  their  own  good  and  not  for  mine,'  the 
girl  replied.  '  You  yourself  would  pick  up  a  mangy  dog  in 
the  road.' 

Lazare  made  a  gesture  of  protest.  '  A  dog  isn't  a  man,' 
he  said. 

'  To  help  for  the  sake  of  helping,  is  not  that  something  ? ' 
Pauline  resumed.  '  It  is  vexing  that  they  don't  improve  in 
conduct,  for,  if  they  did,  perhaps  they  would  suffer  less.  But 
I  am  content  when  they  have  got  food  and  warmth  ;  that  is 
one  trouble  less  for  them,  at  any  rate.  Why  should  you  want 
them  to  recompense  us  for  what  we  do  for  them  ? ' 

Then  she  concluded  sadly  : 

'  My  poor  boy,  I  see  that  all  this  only  bores  you,  and  it 
will  be  better  for  you  not  to  come  and  help  me  in  future.  I 
don't  want  to  harden  your  heart  and  make  you  more  uncharit- 
able than  you  already  are.' 

Thus  Lazare  eluded  all  her  attempts,  and  she  felt  heart- 
broken at  finding  how  utterly  powerless  she  was  to  free  him 
from  his  fear  and  ennui.  When  she  saw  him  so  nervous  and 
despondent,  she  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  the  result 
merely  of  his  secret  trouble  she  imagined  there  must  be 
other  causes  for  his  sadness,  and  the  idea  of  Louise  recurred 
to  her.  She  felt  sure  that  he  must  still  be  thinking  about 
the  girl,  and  suffered  from  not  seeing  her.  A  cold  chill  came 
upon  her  at  this  thought,  and  she  tried  to  recover  her  old 
feeling  of  proud  self-sacrifice,  telling  herself  that  she  was 
quite  capable  of  spreading  sufficient  brightness  and  joy  about 
her  to  make  them  all  happy. 

One  evening  Lazare  made  a  remark  that  hurt  her 
cruelly. 

'  How  lonely  it  is  here  ! '  he  said,  with  a  yawn. 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  2 1 3 

She  looked  at  him.  Had  he  got  Louise  in  his  mind  ? 
But  she  had  not  the  courage  to  question  him.  Her  kindliness 
struggled  within  her,  and  life  became  a  torture  again. 

There  was  another  shock  awaiting  Lazare.  His  old  dog, 
Matthew,  was  far  from  well.  The  poor  animal,  who  had 
completed  his  fourteenth  year  in  the  previous  March,  was 
getting  more  and  more  paralysed  in  his  hind- quarters.  His 
attacks  left  him  so  stiff  that  he  could  scarcely  crawl  along  ; 
and  he  would  lie  out  in  the  yard,  stretching  himself  in  the 
sun,  and  watching  the  members  of  the  family  with  his 
melancholy  eyes.  It  was  the  old  dog's  eyes,  now  dimmed  by 
a  bluish  cloudiness,  blank  like  those  of  a  blind  man,  that 
especially  wrought  upon  Lazare's  feelings.  The  poor  animal, 
however,  could  still  see,  and  used  to  drag  himself  along,  lay 
his  big  head  on  his  master's  knee,  and  look  up  at  him  fixedly 
with  a  sad  expression  that  seemed  to  say  that  he  understood 
all.  His  beauty  had  departed.  His  curly  white  coat  had 
turned  yellowish,  and  his  nose,  once  so  black,  was  becoming 
white.  His  dirtiness,  and  a  kind  of  expression  of  shame  that 
hung  about  him — for  they  dared  not  wash  him  any  more  on 
account  of  his  great  age — rendered  him  yet  more  pitiable. 
All  his  playfulness  had  vanished ;  he  never  now  rolled  on  his 
back,  or  circled  round  after  his  tail,  or  showed  any  impulses 
of  pity  for  Minouche's  kittens  when  Ve'ronique  carried  them 
off  to  drown  in  the  sea.  He  now  spent  his  days  in  drowsing 
like  an  old  man,  and  he  had  so  much  difficulty  in  getting  up 
on  his  legs  again,  and  dragged  his  poor  soft  feet  so  heavily, 
that  often  one  of  the  household,  moved  to  pity  at  the  sight, 
stooped  to  support  him  for  a  moment  or  two  in  order  that  he 
might  be  able  to  walk  a  little. 

He  grew  weaker  every  day  from  loss  of  blood.  They  had 
sent  for  a  veterinary  surgeon,  who  burst  out  laughing  on 
seeing  him.  What !  were  they  making  a  fuss  about  a  dog 
like  that  ?  The  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  put  him  out 
of  the  way  at  once.  It  was  all  very  well  to  try  and  keep  a 
human  being  alive  as  long  as  possible,  but  what  was  the  good 
of  allowing  a  dying  animal  to  linger  on  in  pain  ?  At  this 
they  quickly  bustled  the  vet.  out  of  the  house,  after  paying 
him  his  fee  of  six  francs. 

One  Saturday  Matthew  lost  so  much  blood  that  it  was 
found  necessary  to  shut  him  up  in  the  coach-house.  A  stream 
of  big  red  drops  trickled  after  him.  Doctor  Cazenove,  who 
had  arrived  rather  early,  offered  to  go  and  see  the  dog,  who 


214  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

was  treated  quite  as  a  member  of  the  family.  They  found 
him  lying  down,  in  a  state  of  great  weakness,  but  with  his 
head  raised  very  high,  and  the  light  of  life  still  shining  in  his 
eyes.  The  Doctor  made  a  long  examination  of  him,  with  all 
the  care  and  thoughtfulness  which  he  displayed  at  the  bedside 
of  his  human  patients.  At  last  he  said  : 

1  That  abundant  loss  of  blood  denotes  a  cancerous  de- 
generation of  the  kidneys.  There  is  no  hope  for  him,  but  he 
may  linger  for  a  few  days  yet,  unless  some  sudden  haemorrhage 
carries  him  off.' 

Matthew's  hopeless  condition  threw  a  gloom  over  the 
dinner-table.  They  recalled  how  fond  Madame  Chanteau  had 
been  of  him,  all  the  wild  romps  of  his  youth,  the  dogs  he  had 
worried,  the  cutlets  he  had  stolen  off  the  gridiron,  and  the 
eggs  that  he  gobbled  up  warm  from  the  nest.  But  at  dessert, 
when  Abbe"  Horteur  brought  out  his  pipe,  they  grew  lively 
again,  and  listened  with  attention  to  the  priest  as  he  told 
them  about  his  pear-trees,  which  promised  to  do  splendidly 
that  year.  Chanteau,  notwithstanding  certain  prickings  which 
foreboded  another  attack  of  gout,  finished  off  by  singing 
one  of  the  merry  songs  of  his  youth.  Thus  the  evening 
passed  away  delightfully,  and  even  Lazare  himself  grew 
cheerful. 

About  nine  o'clock,  just  as  tea  was  being  served,  Pauline 
suddenly  cried  out : 

'  Oh  look !     There's  poor  Matthew  1 ' 

And,  in  truth,  the  poor  dog,  all  bleeding  and  shrunken,  was 
dragging  himself  on  his  tottering  legs  into  the  dining-room. 
Then  immediately  afterwards  they  heard  Ve"ronique,  who  was 
rushing  after  him  with  a  cloth.  She  burst  into  the  room, 
crying : 

'  I  had  to  go  into  the  coach-house,  and  he  made  his  escape. 
He  still  insists  upon  being  where  the  rest  of  us  are,  and  one 
can't  take  a  step  without  finding  him  between  one's  legs. 
Come !  come  !  you  can't  stop  here.' 

The  dog  lowered  his  old  trembling  head  with  an  expression 
of  affectionate  entreaty. 

'  Oh  !  let  him  stop,  do ! '  Pauline  cried. 

But  the  servant  seemed  displeased. 

'  No !  indeed,  not  in  such  a  state  as  that.  I  have  had 
quite  enough  to  do,  as  it  is,  with  wiping  up  after  him.  It's 
really  quite  disgusting.  You'll  have  the  dining-room  in  a 
nice  state  if  he  goes  dragging  himself  all  over  the  place  in 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  215 

this  way.  Come  along !  Come  along !  Be  a  little  quicker, 
do  I ' 

1  Let  him  stay  here,  and  you  go  away ! '  said  Lazare. 

Then,  as  Veronique  furiously  banged  the  door  behind  her, 
Matthew,  who  seemed  to  understand  the  situation  perfectly 
well,  came  and  laid  his  head  on  his  master's  knee.  Everyone 
wanted  to  lavish  dainties  on  him  ;  they  broke  up  lumps  of 
sugar,  and  tried  to  brighten  him  up  into  liveliness.  In  times 
past  they  had  been  accustomed  every  evening  to  amuse  them- 
selves by  placing  a  lump  of  sugar  upon  the  table  on  the 
opposite  side  to  that  at  which  the  dog  was  stationed,  and  then 
as  Matthew  ran  round  they  caught  up  the  sugar  and  deposited 
it  on  the  other  side,  in  such  wise  that  the  dog  went  rushing 
round  the  table  in  pursuit  of  the  dainty  which  was  ever  being 
removed  from  him,  till  at  last  he  grew  quite  dizzy  with  the 
perpetual  flitting,  and  broke  out  into  wild  and  noisy  barking. 
Lazare  tried  to  set  this  little  game  going  again,  in  the  hope  of 
cheering  the  poor  animal.  Matthew  wagged  his  tail  for  a 
moment,  went  once  round  the  table,  and  then  staggered  and 
fell  against  Pauline's  chair.  He  could  not  see  the  sugar,  and 
his  poor  shrunken  body  rolled  over  on  its  side.  Chanteau 
had  stopped  humming,  and  everyone  felt  keen  sorrow  at  the 
sight  of  that  poor  dying  dog,  who  had  vainly  tried  to  summon 
up  the  romping  energies  of  the  past. 

'  Don't  do  anything  to  tire  him,'  the  Doctor  said  gently, 
1  or  you  will  kill  him.' 

Then  the  priest,  who  was  smoking  in  silence,  let  fall  a 
remark  which  was  probably  intended  to  account  for  his 
emotion. 

'  One  might  almost  imagine,1  he  said,  '  that  these  big  dogs 
were  human  beings." 

About  ten  o'clock,  when  the  priest  and  the  Doctor  had  left, 
Lazare,  before  going  to  his  own  room,  went  to  lock  Matthew  in 
the  coach-house  again.  He  laid  him  carefully  down  upon 
some  fresh  straw,  and  saw  that  his  bowl  was  full  of  water ; 
then  he  kissed  him  and  was  about  to  leave  him,  but  the  dog 
raised  himself  on  his  feet  with  a  painful  effort,  and  tried  to 
follow  the  young  man.  Lazare  had  to  put  him  back  three 
times,  and  then  at  last  the  dog  yielded,  but  he  raised  his  head 
with  so  sad  an  expression  to  watch  his  master  depart  that 
Lazare,  who  felt  heart-broken,  came  back  and  kissed  him 
again. 

When  he  reached  his  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  the 


216  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

young  man  tried  to  read  till  midnight.  Then  he  went  to  bed. 
But  he  could  not  sleep;  his  mind  dwelt  continually  upon 
Matthew  ;  the  image  of  the  poor  animal,  lying  on  his  bed  of 
straw,  with  his  failing  eyes  turned  towards  the  door,  never 
ceased  to  haunt  him.  On  the  morrow,  he  thought,  Matthew 
would  be  dead.  Every  minute  he  caught  himself  involuntarily 
sitting  up  in  bed  and  listening,  fancying  he  heard  a  bark 
in  the  yard.  His  straining  ears  caught  all  sorts  of  imaginary 
sounds.  About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  heard  a 
groaning  which  made  him  jump  out  of  bed.  Who  could  be 
groaning  like  that  ?  He  rushed  out  on  to  the  landing,  but 
the  house  was  wrapped  in  darkness  and  silence,  not  a  breath 
came  from  Pauline's  room.  Then  he  could  no  longer  resist 
his  impulse  to  go  downstairs.  The  hope  of  once  more  seeing 
his  old  dog  alive  made  him  hasten  his  steps ;  he  scarcely  gave 
himself  time  to  thrust  his  legs  into  a  pair  of  trousers,  before 
he  started  off,  taking  his  candle  with  him. 

When  he  reached  the  coach-house  Matthew  was  no 
longer  lying  on  the  straw;  he  had  dragged  himself  some 
distance  away  from  it,  and  was  stretched  upon  the  hard 
ground.  When  he  saw  his  master  enter,  he  no  longer  had 
enough  strength  to  raise  his  head.  Lazare  placed  his  candle 
on  some  old  boards,  and  was  filled  with  astonishment  when 
he  bent  down  and  saw  the  ground  all  black.  Then  a  spasm 
of  pain  came  to  him  as  he  knelt  and  found  that  the  poor 
animal  was  weltering  in  his  death-throes  in  a  perfect  pool  of 
blood.  Life  was  quickly  ebbing  from  him  ;  he  wagged  his  tail 
very  feebly,  while  a  faint  light  glistened  in  the  depths  of  his 
eyes. 

'  Oh !  my  poor  old  dog  I '  sobbed  Lazare ;  '  oh  !  my  poor 
old  dog ! ' 

Then,  aloud,  he  said  : 

'  Wait  a  moment  1  I  will  move  you.  Ah  I  I'm  afraid 
it  hurts  you,  but  you  are  drenched  lying  here ;  and  I 
haven't  even  got  a  sponge.  Would  you  like  something  to 
drink  ? ' 

Matthew  still  gazed  at  him  earnestly.  Gradually  the 
death-rattle  shook  his  sides,  and  the  pool  of  blood  grew 
bigger  and  bigger,  quite  silently,  and  as  though  it  were  fed 
by  some  hidden  spring. 

Various  ladders  and  broken  barrels  in  the  coach-house 
cast  great  shadows  around,  and  the  candle  burnt  very  dimly. 
JJut  suddenly  there  came  a  rustling  among  the  straw.  It  was 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  217 

the  cat,  Minouche,  who  was  reposing  on  the  bed  made  for 
Matthew,  and  had  been  disturbed  by  the  light. 

'  Would  you  like  something  to  drink,  my  poor  old  fellow  ? ' 
Lazare  repeated. 

He  had  found  a  cloth,  which  he  dipped  in  the  pan  of 
water  and  pressed  against  the  dying  animal's  mouth.  It 
seemed  to  relieve  him ;  and  his  nose,  which  was  excoriated 
through  fever,  became  a  little  cooler.  Half  an  hour  passed, 
during  which  Lazare  constantly  dipped  the  cloth  in  the 
water,  while  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  painful  sight 
before  him,  and  his  heart  ached  with  all  the  bitterness  of 
grief.  Wild  hopes  came  to  him  at  times,  as  they  do  to  the 
watchers  at  a  bedside  ;  perhaps,  he  thought,  he  might  recall 
ebbing  life  by  that  simple  application  of  cold  water. 

'  Ah  I  what  is  the  matter  ?  What  do  you  want  to  do  ? ' 
he  cried  suddenly.  '  You  want  to  get  on  your  feet,  eh  ? ' 

Matthew,  shaken  by  a  fit  of  shivering,  made  desperate 
efforts  to  raise  himself.  He  stiffened  his  limbs,  while  his 
neck  was  distended  by  his  hiccoughs.  But  the  end  was  close 
at  hand,  and  he  fell  across  his  master's  knees,  with  eyes  still 
straining  from  beneath  their  heavy  lids  to  catch  sight  of  him. 
Quite  overcome  by  that  glance,  so  full  of  intelligence,  Lazare 
held  Matthew  there  on  his  knees,  while  the  animal's  big  body, 
heavy  like  that  of  a  man,  was  racked  by  a  human-like 
death-agony  in  his  sorrowing  embrace.  It  lasted  for  some 
minutes,  and  then  Lazare  saw  real  tears — heavy  tears — roll 
down  from  the  dog's  mournful  eyes,  while  his  tongue  showed 
forth  from  his  convulsed  mouth,  as  though  for  a  last  caress. 

'  Oh  1  my  poor  old  dog ! '  cried  Lazare,  bursting  into  sobs. 

Matthew  was  dead.  A  little  bloody  foam  frothed  round 
his  jaws.  As  Lazare  laid  him  down  on  the  floor  he  looked 
as  though  he  were  asleep. 

Then  once  more  the  young  man  felt  that  all  was  over. 
His  dog  was  dead  now,  and  this  filled  him  with  unreasonable 
grief  and  seemed  to  cast  a  gloom  over  his  whole  life.  That 
death  awoke  in  him  the  memory  of  other  deaths,  and  he  had 
not  felt  more  heart-broken  even  when  walking  through 
the  yard  behind  his  mother's  coffin.  Some  last  portion  of 
her  seemed  to  be  torn  away  from  him ;  she  had  gone 
from  him  now  entirely.  The  recollection  of  his  months  of 
secret  anguish,  of  his  nights  disturbed  by  nightmare 
visions,  of  his  walks  to  the  little  graveyard,  and  of  all  his 
terror  at  the  thought  of  annihilation,  surged  up  in  his  mind. 


2i8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

However,  he  heard  a  sound,  and  when  he  turned  he  saw 
Minouche  quietly  making  her  toilet  on  the  straw.  But  the 
door  creaked,  and  Pauline  then  entered  the  coach-house, 
impelled  thither  by  an  impulse  similar  to  that  of  her  cousin. 
When  he  saw  her  his  tears  fell  faster,  and  he  who  had  care- 
fully concealed  all  his  grief  at  his  mother's  death,  as  though 
it  had  been  some  shameful  folly,  now  cried  : 

'  Oh,  God !  God  1  She  loved  him  so  dearly !  ¥ou 
remember,  don't  you?  She  first  had  him  when  he  was 
quite  a  tiny  little  thing,  and  it  was  she  who  always  fed  him, 
and  he  used  to  follow  her  all  over  the  house  1 ' 

Then  he  added ; 

'  There  is  no  one  left  now,  and  we  are  utterly  alone  1 ' 

Tears  sprang  up  in  Pauline's  eyes.  She  had  stooped  to  look 
at  poor  Matthew's  body  lying  there  beneath  the  dim  glimmer 
of  the  candle.  And  she  did  not  seek  to  console  Lazare.  She 
made  but  a  gesture  of  despair,  for  she  felt  that  she  was 
utterly  powerless. 


vm 

IT  was  ennui  that  lay  below  all  Lazare's  gloomy  sadness,  a 
heavy  continuous  ennui  which  rose  from  everything,  like 
murky  waters  from  some  poisoned  spring.  He  was  bored 
both  with  work  and  with  idleness,  and  with  himself  even 
more  than  with  others.  However,  he  took  himself  to  task 
for  his  idleness  and  felt  ashamed  of  it.  It  was  disgraceful 
for  a  man  of  his  age  to  waste  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  such 
a  hole  as  Bonneville.  Until  now  he  had  had  some  excuse  for 
doing  so,  but  at  present  there  was  no  longer  anything  to  keep 
him  at  home,  and  he  despised  himself  for  staying  there, 
leading  a  useless  existence,  living  upon  his  family,  who 
were  scarcely  able  to  keep  themselves.  He  told  himself  that 
he  ought  to  be  making  a  fortune  for  them,  and  that  he  was 
failing  shamefully  in  not  doing  so,  as  he  had  formerly  sworn 
he  would.  Great  schemes  for  the  future,  grand  enterprises, 
the  idea  of  a  vast  fortune  acquired  by  some  brilliant  stroke  of 
genius,  still  occurred  to  him  ;  but  when  he  rose  up  from  his 
reveries  he  lacked  the  energy  to  turn  his  thoughts  into  action. 
'  I  can't  go  on  like  this,'  he  often  said  to  Pauline.  '  I 
must  really  do  something.  I  should  like  to  start  a  news- 
paper at  Caen.1 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  219 

And  his  cousin  always  made  the  same  reply : 

'  Wait  till  the  time  of  mourning  is  over.  There  is  no 
hurry.  You  had  better  think  matters  well  over  before  you 
launch  out  into  an  undertaking  like  that.' 

The  truth  was  that,  notwithstanding  her  desire  to  see  him 
occupy  himself  with  some  kind  of  work,  she  was  alarmed  by 
this  scheme  of  founding  a  newspaper.  Another  failure,  she 
feared,  might  kill  him,  and  she  thought  of  all  his  many  pre- 
vious ones — music,  medicine,  the  sea- weed  works ;  everything, 
in  fact,  that  he  had  ever  taken  in  hand.  And,  besides,  a 
couple  of  hours  after  he  had  mentioned  this  last  plan  to 
her  he  had  refused  even  to  write  a  letter,  on  the  ground  that 
he  was  too  tired. 

The  weeks  passed  away,  and  another  flood-tide  carried  off 
three  more  houses  at  Bonneville.  When  the  fishermen  now 
met  Lazare  they  asked  him  if  he  had  had  enough  of  it. 
Though  it  was  really  quite  useless  trying  to  do  anything,  they 
said  it  grieved  them  to  see  so  much  good  timber  lost.  There 
was  a  touch  of  banter  in  their  expressions  of  condolence 
and  in  the  manner  in  which  they  besought  him  not  to  leave 
the  place  to  the  waves,  as  though  with  their  sailor-natures 
they  felt  a  savage  pride  in  the  sea's  destructive  blows.  By 
degrees  Lazare  grew  so  annoyed  with  their  remarks  that 
he  avoided  passing  through  the  village.  The  sight  of  the 
ruined  piles  and  stockades  in  the  distance  became  intolerable 
to  him. 

One  day,  as  he  was  on  his  way  to  see  the  priest,  Prouane 
stopped  him. 

'Monsieur  Lazare,'  he  said  obsequiously,  while  a  mis- 
chievous smile  played  round  his  eyes,  '  you  know  those  pieces 
of  timber  which  are  rotting  away  down  yonder  on  the  shore  ?' 

'  Well,  what  about  them  ? ' 

'  If  you're  not  going  to  use  them  again,  you  might  give 
them  to  us.  They  would  serve,  at  any  rate,  as  firewood.' 

The  young  man  was  carried  away  by  his  anger,  and,  with- 
out even  thinking  of  what  he  was  saying,  he  answered 
sharply : 

'  That's  quite  impossible.  I  am  going  to  set  men  to  work 
again  next  week.' 

At  this  all  the  neighbourhood  shouted.  They  were  going 
to  have  all  the  fun  over  again,  since  young  Chanteau  was 
showing  himself  so  pig-headed.  A  fortnight  went  by,  and  the 
fishermen  never  met  Lazare  without  asking  him  if  he  was 


220  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

unable  to  find  workmen ;  and  thug  he  was  goaded  into  a  re- 
newal of  his  operations,  being  induced  thereto,  also,  by  the 
entreaties  of  his  cousin,  who  was  anxious  that  he  should  have 
some  occupation  which  would  keep  him  near  her.  But  he 
entered  into  the  matter  without  the  least  spark  of  enthusiasm, 
and  it  was  only  his  revengeful  enmity  against  the  sea  which 
kept  him  saying  that  he  was  quite  certain  to  triumph 
over  it  this  time,  and  would  make  it  lick  the  pebbles  on  the 
shore  as  submissively  as  a  dog. 

Once  again  Lazare  set  to  work  preparing  plans.  He 
planned  fresh  angles  of  resistance  and  doubled  the  strength  of 
his  supports.  No  excessive  expense  was  going  to  be  incurred, 
as  most  of  the  old  timbers  could  be  used  again.  The  carpenter 
sent  in  an  estimate  of  four  thousand  francs;  and,  as  the 
sum  was  so  small,  Lazare  made  no  objection  to  Louise  advanc- 
ing it,  being  quite  certain,  he  said,  of  getting  a  subvention 
from  the  General  Council ;  indeed,  he  remarked  that  this  was 
the  only  means  they  had  of  getting  their  previous  expen- 
diture reimbursed,  for  the  Council  would  certainly  refuse  to 
advance  a  copper  so  long  as  the  works  remained  in  their 
present  ruinous  condition.  This  consideration  seemed  to 
infuse  a  little  warmth  into  his  proceedings,  and  the  operations 
were  pressed  on.  In  other  ways,  too,  he  became  very  busy, 
and  went  over  to  Caen  every  week  to  see  the  Prefect  and  the 
influential  members  of  the  Council. 

While  the  piles  were  being  laid,  an  intimation  was  received 
that  an  engineer  would  be  sent  to  inspect  the  operations  and 
make  a  report,  on  the  receipt  of  which  the  Council  would  vote 
a  subvention.  The  engineer  spent  a  whole  day  at  Bonneville. 
He  was  a  very  pleasant  man,  and  gladly  accepted  an  invita- 
tion from  the  Chanteaus  to  lunch  with  them  after  his  visit  to 
the  shore.  They  refrained  from  making  any  reference  to  the 
subvention,  as  they  were  unwilling  to  appear  in  any  way 
desirous  of  influencing  his  judgment,  but  he  showed  himself 
so  polite  and  attentive  to  Pauline  at  table  that  she  began  to 
feel  no  doubt  as  to  their  success  in  obtaining  the  grant.  And 
so,  a  fortnight  later,  when  Lazare  returned  from  one  of  his 
visits  to  Caen,  the  whole  house  was  thrown  into  amazement 
and  consternation  by  the  news  which  he  brought  back  with 
him.  He  was  bursting  with  anger.  Would  they  believe  it ! 
That  silly  fop  of  an  engineer  had  sent  in  a  simply  disgraceful 
report.  Yes  !  he  had  been  polite  and  civil,  but  he  had  made 
fun  of  every  single  piece  of  timber  with  a  ridiculous  lavishness 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  221 

of  technical  terms.  But  it  was  only  what  they  might  have 
expected,  for  those  official  gentlemen  didn't  believe  that  any 
one  could  put  even  a  rabbit-hutch  together  without  their 
advice  and  assistance  1  However,  the  worst  of  the  matter 
was  that  the  Council,  after  reading  the  report,  had  refused  to 
vote  any  grant  at  all. 

This  blow  was  a  source  of  fresh  despondency  to  the  young 
man.  The  works  were  finished,  and  he  swore  that  they 
would  resist  the  heaviest  tides,  and  that  the  whole  Engineer- 
ing Department  would  go  wild  with  angry  jealousy  when  they 
saw  them.  All  this,  however,  would  not  repay  Pauline  the 
money  that  she  had  advanced,  and  Lazare  bitterly  reproached 
himself  for  having  led  her  into  that  loss.  She  herself,  how- 
ever, rising  victorious  over  the  instincts  of  her  economical 
nature,  claimed  the  entire  responsibility  for  the  course  she  had 
taken,  impressing  upon  him  that  it  was  she  who  had  insisted 
upon  making  the  advances.  The  money  had  gone  in  a 
charitable  purpose,  she  said,  and  she  did  not  regret  a  sou  of  it, 
but  would  have  gladly  given  more  for  the  sake  of  saving  the 
unhappy  village.  However,  when  the  carpenter  sent  in  his 
bill,  she  could  not  suppress  a  gesture  of  grievous  astonish- 
ment. The  four  thousand  francs  of  the  estimate  had  grown  to 
nearly  eight  thousand.  Altogether,  those  piles  and  stockades, 
which  the  first  storm  might  completely  sweep  away,  had  cost 
her  more  than  twenty  thousand  francs. 

By  this  time  Pauline's  fortune  was  reduced  to  forty  thou- 
sand francs,  which  produced  a  yearly  income  of  two  thousand 
francs,  a  sum  on  which  she  would  be  barely  able  to  live, 
should  she  ever  find  herself  homeless  and  friendless.  Her 
money  had  trickled  away  in  small  sums  in  the  household 
expenses,  which  she  still  continued  to  defray.  But  she  now 
began  to  exercise  a  strict  supervision  over  all  the  outlay  of 
the  house.  The  Chanteaus  themselves  no  longer  had  even 
their  three  hundred  francs  a  month,  for,  after  Madame 
Chanteau's  death,  it  was  found  that  a  certain  amount  of  stock 
had  been  sold  without  there  being  any  clue  as  to  how  the 
amount  realised  by  its  sale  had  been  applied.  When  her  own 
income  was  added  to  that  of  the  family,  Pauline  had  little 
more  than  four  hundred  francs  a  month  with  which  to  keep 
the  house  going.  The  expenses  of  the  establishment  were 
heavy,  and  she  had  to  perform  miracles  of  economy  in  order 
to  save  the  money  that  she  needed  for  her  charities.  Doctor 
Cazenove's  trusteeship  had  terminated  during  the  winter,  and 


222  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Pauline,  being  now  of  age,  her  money  and  herself  were  entirely 
at  her  own  disposal ;  though  indeed  the  Doctor  during  the 
term  of  his  authority  had  never  refused  to  let  her  have  her  own 
way.  That  authority  had  legally  ceased  for  some  weeks  before 
either  of  them  remembered  the  fact.  But,  although  Pauline 
had  been  practically  her  own  mistress  for  some  time,  she 
felt  more  thoroughly  independent,  more  like  a  fully- grown 
woman,  now  that  she  was  the  uncontrolled  mistress  of  the 
house,  with  no  accounts  to  render  to  anybody,  for  her  uncle  was 
ever  entreating  her  to  settle  everything,  and  Lazare,  like  his 
father,  also  hated  having  anything  to  do  with  money  matters. 

Thus  Pauline  held  the  common  purse  and  stepped  entirely 
into  her  aunt's  place,  performing  her  duties  as  mistress  of  the 
house  with  a  practical  common-sense  that  sometimes  quite 
amazed  the  two  men.  It  was  only  V6ronique  who  made  any 
complaints,  thinking  that  Mademoiselle  Pauline  was  very 
stingy,  and  grumbling  at  being  restricted  to  a  single  pound  of 
butter  a  week. 

The  days  succeeded  each  other  with  monotonous  regula- 
rity. The  perpetual  sameness,  the  unvarying  habits  of  the 
household,  which  constituted  Pauline's  happiness,  only 
tended  to  increase  Lazare's  feeling  of  ennui.  Never  had  the 
house  affected  him  with  such  uneasy  disquietude  as  now, 
when  every  room  seemed  basking  in  cheerful  peace.  The 
completion  of  the  operations  on  the  shore  had  proved  a  great 
relief,  for  enforced  attention  to  anything  had  become  intoler- 
able to  him,  and  he  had  no  sooner  fallen  back  into  idleness 
than  he  once  more  became  the  prey  of  shame  and  anxiety. 
Every  morning  he  made  a  fresh  set  of  plans  for  the  future. 
He  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  starting  a  newspaper  as  un- 
worthy of  him,  and  he  inveighed  against  the  poverty  which 
prevented  him  from  quietly  devoting  himself  to  some  great 
literary  work.  He  had  lately  become  enamoured  of  the 
notion  of  preparing  himself  for  a  professorship,  and  so  earn- 
ing a  livelihood  and  enabling  himself  to  carry  out  his  literary 
ambition.  There  no  longer  seemed  to  exist  between  himself 
and  Pauline  anything  beyond  their  old  feeling  of  comrade- 
ship, a  quiet  affection  which  made  them,  as  it  were,  brother 
and  sister.  The  young  man  never  made  any  reference  to  their 
marriage,  either  because  he  never  thought  of  it,  or,  perhaps, 
because  he  took  it  for  granted  and  considered  any  dis- 
cussion of  the  matter  unnecessary  ;  while  the  girl  herself  was 
equally  reticent  on  the  subject,  feeling  quite  certain  that  her 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  223 

cousin  would  willingly  acquiesce  in  the  first  suggestion  of 
their  union.  And  yet  Lazare's  passion  for  her  was  gradually 
diminishing  ;  a  fact  of  which  she  was  quite  conscious,  though 
she  did  not  understand  that  it  was  this  alone  which  rendered 
her  powerless  to  free  him  from  his  ennui. 

One  evening,  when  she  had  gone  upstairs  in  the  dusk  to 
tell  him  that  dinner  was  ready,  she  surprised  him  in  the  act  of 
hastily  hiding  something  which  she  could  not  distinguish. 

'  What's  that  ? '  she  asked,  with  a  laugh.  '  Some  verses 
for  my  birthday  ?  ' 

'  No  ! '  he  replied,  with  much  emotion  and  in  wavering 
tones.  '  It's  nothing  at  all.' 

It  was  an  old  glove  which  Louise  had  left  behind  her,  and 
which  he  had  just  discovered  behind  a  pile  of  books.  The 
glove  had  retained  a  strong  odour  of  the  original  skin  of 
which  it  was  made,  and  this  was  softened  to  a  musky 
fragrance  by  Louise's  favourite  perfume,  heliotrope.  Lazare, 
who  was  very  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  odours,  was 
violently  agitated  by  that  scent,  and  in  a  state  of  emotion 
had  lingered  with  the  glove  pressed  to  his  lips,  draining  from 
it  a  draught  of  sweet  recollections. 

From  that  day  onward  he  began  to  yearn  for  Louise  over 
the  yawning  chasm  which  his  mother's  death  had  left  within 
him.  He  had  never  indeed  forgotten  the  girl ;  her  image  had 
been  dimmed  somewhat  by  his  grief,  but  it  only  wanted  that 
little  thing  that  had  once  belonged  to  her  to  bring  her  back 
to  his  mind.  He  took  up  the  glove  again,  as  soon  as  he  was 
alone,  kissed  it,  inhaled  its  scent,  and  fancied  that  he  was  still 
holding  the  girl  in  his  embrace  with  his  lips  seeking  hers. 
His  nervous  excitement,  the  mental  feverishness  which  re- 
sulted from  his  long-continued  inactivity,  tended  to  intensify 
this  species  of  intoxication.  He  felt  vexed  with  himself  on 
account  of  it,  but  he  succumbed  to  it  again  and  again,  carried 
away  by  a  passion  which  quite  overpowered  him.  All  this, 
too,  increased  his  gloomy  moodiness,  and  he  even  began  to 
get  snappish  and  surly  with  his  cousin,  as  though  she  were  in 
some  way  to  blame  for  his  passionate  trances.  Often,  in  the 
midst  of  some  tranquil  conversation,  he  would  suddenly  rush 
off  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  and  wallow  in  his  pas- 
sionate recollections  of  the  other  girl.  Then  he  would  come 
downstairs  again,  weary  and  disgusted  with  life. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  he  had  so  completely  changed  that 
Pauline  grew  quite  hopeless  and  spent  nights  of  torment.  In 


224  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

the  daytime  she  forced  herself  to  assume  a  brave  face,  and  kept 
herself  perpetually  busy  in  the  house  of  which  she  was  now  the 
mistress.  But  at  night,  when  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her 
room  behind  her,  she  dwelt  upon  her  troubles,  gave  way 
completely,  and  wept  like  a  child.  She  had  no  hope  left ;  all  her 
kindliness  only  met  with  an  increasingly  chilling  reception. 
Could  it  really  be,  she  wondered,  that  kindness  and  affection 
were  insufficient,  and  that  it  was  possible  to  love  a  person  and 
yet  cause  him  unhappiness  ?  For  she  saw  that  her  cousin  was 
really  unhappy,  and  she  began  to  fear  that  it  might  somehow 
be  her  own  fault.  And  then,  beneath  her  doubts  of  herself, 
there  lurked  increasing  fears  of  a  rival  influence.  She  had 
for  a  long  time  explained  Lazare's  gloomy  moodiness  to  her- 
self as  springing  from  grief  at  his  mother's  death ;  but  now 
she  was  again  haunted  by  the  idea  of  Louise,  an  idea  which 
had  occurred  to  her  on  the  very  day  after  Madame  Chanteau's 
death,  but  which  she  had  then  scornfully  dismissed  amidst 
her  pride  in  the  power  of  her  own  affection,  though  every 
night  now  it  forced  itself  upon  her  as  she  found  the  efforts  of 
her  love  so  unavailing. 

The  girl  was  haunted  by  it  all.  As  soon  as  she  had  put 
down  her  candle  after  entering  her  room  she  threw  herself 
upon  her  bed,  without  having  the  energy  to  undress.  All  the 
gaiety  of  spirit  which  she  had  shown  during  the  day,  all  her 
calmness  and  restraint,  weighed  upon  her  like  a  too  heavy 
gown.  The  day,  like  those  which  had  preceded  it,  and  like 
those  which  would  follow,  had  passed  away  amidst  that  feel- 
ing of  hopelessness  with  which  Lazare's  moody  ennui  con- 
taminated the  whole  house.  What  was  the  use  of  striving  to 
appear  bright  and  cheerful,  when  she  was  unable  to  cast  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  on  him  she  so  dearly  loved  ?  Lazare's 
former  cruel  remark  still  rankled  in  her  heart.  They  were  too 
lonely,  and  it  was  her  jealousy  that  was  to  blame  for  it;  it 
was  she  who  had  sent  their  friends  away.  She  would  not 
name  Louise  to  herself,  and  she  tried  not  to  think  about  her ; 
but  she  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  the  memory  of  that 
girl,  with  the  winning  ways  and  coquettish  airs  which  had 
amused  Lazare,  who  grew  bright  at  the  mere  rustling  of  her 
gown.  The  minutes  glided  on,  and  still  Pauline  could  not 
drive  Louise  from  her  thoughts.  She  felt  sure  it  was  for  her 
that  Lazare  was  anxiously  longing,  that  all  that  was  wanted 
to  set  him  right  again  was  to  send  for  the  girl.  And  every 
evening  when  Pauline  went  upstairs  and  threw  herself 
wearily  on  her  bed  she  relapsed  into  those  same  thoughts  and 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  225 

visions,  and  was  tortured  by  the  idea  that  the  happiness  of  her 
dear  ones  depended  perhaps  upon  another  than  herself. 

Now  and  then  her  spirit  would  rise  within  her  in  rebellion, 
and  she  would  spring  from  her  bed,  rush  to  the  window  and 
open  it,  feeling  suffocated.  And  there,  gazing  out  into  the  far- 
spreading  darkness,  above  the  ocean,  whose  moaning  rose  to 
her  ear,  she  would  remain  for  hours,  leaning  on  her  elbowa, 
unable  to  sleep,  while  the  sea-air  played  upon  her  burning 
breast.  No  ;  never  could  she  be  vile  enough,  she  told  herself, 
to  tolerate  that  girl's  return  !  Had  she  not  surprised  them 
together  ?  Was  it  not  an  act  of  treason — treason  of  the  basest 
kind — that  they  had  committed  ?  Yes  ;  it  was  an  unpardon- 
able offence,  and  she  would  only  be  making  herself  their 
accomplice  if  she  did  anything  to  bring  them  together  again. 
She  grew  feverish  and  excited  with  angry  jealousy  at  the 
ideas  which  she  called  up,  and  shook  with  sobs  as  she  hid 
her  face  with  her  bare  arms.  The  night  sped  on,  and  the 
breezes  fanned  her  neck  and  played  with  her  hair  without 
calming  the  angry  pulsing  of  her  blood.  But  even  in  those 
moments  when  indignation  most  mastered  her,  her  natural 
kindliness  still  made  its  voice  heard  and  struggled  against  her 
passion.  It  whispered  to  her  in  gentle  tones  of  the  blessedness 
of  charity,  of  the  sweetness  of  sacrificing  one's  self  for  others. 
She  tried  to  hush  that  inner  voice,  telling  herself  that  to 
carry  self-sacrifice  to  the  point  of  baseness  was  idiotic ;  but 
she  still  heard  its  pleading,  which  refused  to  be  silenced.  By 
degrees  she  grew  to  recognise  it  as  the  voice  of  her  own 
better  nature,  and  she  began  to  ask  herself  what,  after  all, 
would  suffering  matter,  if  she  could  only  secure  the  happi- 
ness of  those  who  were  dear  to  her  ?  Then  she  sobbed  less 
loudly  as  she  listened  to  the  moans  of  the  sea  ascending 
through  the  darkness,  weary  and  ill  the  while,  and  not  yet 
conquered. 

One  night,  after  long  weeping  at  her  window,  she  at  last 
got  into  bed.  As  soon  as  she  had  blown  out  her  candle  and 
lay  staring  into  the  darkness  she  came  to  a  sudden  resolu- 
tion. The  very  first  thing  in  the  morning  she  would  get 
her  uncle  to  write  to  Louise  and  invite  her  to  stay  at  Bonne- 
ville  for  a  month.  It  all  seemed  quite  natural  and  easy  to  her 
just  then,  and  she  quickly  fell  into  sound  sleep,  a  deeper  and 
calmer  sleep  than  she  had  known  for  weeks.  But  when  she 
came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning  and  saw  herself 
sitting  between  her  uncle  and  cousin  at  the  family  table,  there 

Q 


226  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

came  a  sudden  choking  sensation  in  her  throat,  and  she  felt 
all  her  courage  and  resolution  forsaking  her. 

'  You  are  eating  nothing,'  said  Chanteau.  '  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'Nothing  at  all,'  she  replied.  '  On  the  contrary,  I  have 
had  a  remarkably  good  sleep.' 

The  mere  sight  of  Lazare  brought  her  back  to  her  mental 
struggle.  He  was  eating  in  silence,  weary  already  of  the  new 
day  that  had  begun,  and  the  girl  could  not  bring  herself  to 
yield  him  to  another.  The  thought  of  another  taking  him 
from  her,  and  kissing  him  to  console  and  comfort  him,  was 
intolerable  to  her.  Yet  when  he  left  the  room  she  made  an 
effort  to  carry  out  her  resolution. 

'  Are  your  hands  any  worse  to-day  ? '  she  asked  her  uncle. 

He  gazed  at  his  hands,  where  tophus  was  again  appearing, 
and  he  painfully  bent  the  joints. 

'  No,'  he  answered.  '  My  right  hand  is  even  more  supple 
than  usual.  If  the  priest  comes,  we'll  have  a  game  at 
draughts.' 

Then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  he  added  : 

'  "What  makes  you  ask  ? ' 

She  had  been  hoping  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  write, 
and  now  she  blushed  deeply,  and,  like  a  coward,  determined 
to  defer  the  letter  till  the  morrow. 

'  Oh  !  I  only  wanted  to  know  ! '  she  stammered. 

From  that  day  forward  all  rest  deserted  her.  Up  in  her 
own  room  at  nights,  after  her  fits  of  tears,  she  used  to  gain  the 
mastery  over  herself,  and  vow  that  she  would  dictate  to  her 
uncle  a  letter  in  the  morning  ;  but  when  the  morning  came, 
and  she  again  joined  in  the  family  life  amongst  those  she 
loved,  all  her  resolution  failed  her.  The  most  trivial  little 
details  sent  a  pang  through  her  heart ;  the  bread  that  she  cut 
for  her  cousin,  his  shoes  which  she  gave  to  Ve'ronique  to  be 
cleaned,  and  all  the  petty  incidents  of  the  daily  routine.  They 
might  surely  still  be  very  happy  by  themselves  in  their  old 
way,  she  thought.  What  was  the  use  of  calling  in  a  stranger  ? 
Why  disturb  the  affectionate  life  which  they  had  been 
living  for  so  many  years  past  ?  The  thought  that  it  would  no 
longer  be  she  herself  who  would  cut  the  bread  and  mend  the 
linen  made  her  choke  with  grief,  as  if  she  saw  all  happiness 
crumble  away.  This  torture,  which  lurked  in  every  little 
homely  detail  of  her  work,  made  all  her  duties  as  mistress  a 
torment. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  227 

'  What  can  be  wrong  ?  '  she  would  sometimes  ask  herself 
aloud.  « We  love  each  other,  and  yet  we  are  not  happy.  Our 
affection  for  each  other  only  seems  to  make  us  wretched.' 

It  was  a  problem  she  was  constantly  trying  to  solve.  Per- 
haps all  the  trouble  arose  from  the  fact  that  her  own  cha- 
racter and  that  of  her  cousin  did  not  harmonize.  But,  though 
she  would  willingly  have  adapted  herself,  have  abdicated  all 
personal  will,  she  found  it  impossible  to  do  so,  for  her  sense 
of  reason  prevented  her.  Her  patience  often  gave  way,  and 
there  were  days  of  sulking.  She  would  have  liked  to  be 
merry  and  drown  all  petty  wretchedness  in  gaiety,  but  she 
could  no  longer  do  so ;  she,  in  her  turn,  was  growing 
moody  and  despondent. 

'  It's  very  nice  and  pleasant  this  1 '  Veronique  began  to 
repeat  from  morning  till  night.  '  There  are  only  three  of  you 
now,  and  you'll  end  by  eating  each  other  up  !  Madame  used 
to  have  her  bad  days,  but,  at  any  rate,  while  she  was  alive, 
you  managed  to  keep  off  banging  things  at  each  other's 
heads.' 

Chanteau  himself  also  began  to  suffer  from  the  influence 
of  this  slow  and,  to  him,  inexplicable  disintegration  of  the 
family  affections.  Whenever  he  now  had  an  attack  of  the 
gout,  he  bellowed,  as  the  servant  said,  more  loudly  than  before, 
and  his  caprices  and  violence  tormented  everyone  in  the 
place.  The  whole  house  was  becoming  a  hell  once  more. 

At  last  Pauline,  in  the  last  throes  of  her  jealousy,  began 
to  ask  herself  if  she  was  to  impose  her  own  ideas  of  happiness 
on  Lazare.  Certainly  before  everything  else  it  was  his  happi- 
ness that  she  desired,  even  at  the  cost  of  grief  to  herself. 
Why,  then,  should  she  go  on  keeping  him  in  this  seclusion, 
in  a  solitude  which  seemed  to  make  him  suffer  ?  He  must, 
and  doubtless  he  did,  still  love  her,  and  he  would  come  back 
to  her  when  he  was  better  able  to  appreciate  her  after  com- 
parison with  that  other  girl.  But,  any  way,  she  ought  to  let 
him  make  his  own  choice.  It  was  only  just,  and  the  idea  of 
justice  remained  paramount  within  her. 

Every  three  months  Pauline  repaired  to  Caen  to  receive  the 
dividends.  She  started  in  the  morning  and  returned  in  the 
evening,  after  attending  to  a  list  of  purchases  and  errands 
which  she  compiled  during  the  previous  quarter.  On  her 
visit  to  Caen  in  June  that  year,  however,  the  family  vainly 
awaited  her  return,  putting  off  dinner  till  nine  o'clock. 
Chanteau,  who  had  become  very  uneasy,  sent  Lazare  off  along 

Q2 


228  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

the  road,  fearing  that  some  accident  had  occurred ;  whereas 
Ve"ronique,  with  an  air  of  perfect  tranquillity,  said  that  it  was 
foolish  of  them  to  distress  themselves,  for  Mademoiselle  Pauline, 
finding  herself  behindhand,  and  being  anxious  to  complete 
her  purchases,  had  doubtless  determined  to  stay  at  Caen  all 
night.  Nevertheless,  they  spent  a  very  uneasy  time  at  Bonne- 
ville,  and  next  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  their 
anxiety  returned.  About  noon,  when  Chanteau  could  scarcely 
keep  himself  any  longer  in  his  chair,  and  Lazare  had  just 
determined  to  set  off  to  Arromanches,  V6ronique,  who  had 
been  standing  on  the  road,  suddenly  rushed  into  the  room 
exclaiming : 

'  Here  she  is  1     Mademoiselle  is  coming  I  ' 

Chanteau  insisted  upon  having  his  chair  wheeled  on  to 
the  terrace,  and  the  father  and  son  waited  there  together, 
while  V6ronique  gave  them  particulars  of  what  she  had 
seen. 

'  It  was  Malivoire's  coach.  I  could  tell  it  was  Made- 
moiselle Pauline  by  her  crape  ribbons.  But  what  I  couldn't 
understand  was  that  there  seemed  to  be  somebody  with  her. 
What  can  that  broken -winded  old  hack  be  doing,  I  wonder  ? ' 

At  last  the  coach  drove  up  to  the  door.  Lazare  had 
stepped  towards  it,  and  had  already  opened  his  mouth  to 
question  Pauline,  who  had  sprung  down  lightly,  when  he 
remained  as  if  thunderstruck.  Behind  his  cousin  there 
appeared  another  young  woman,  dressed  in  striped  lilac  silk. 
Both  girls  were  laughing  together  in  the  most  friendly  fashion. 
The  young  man's  surprise  was  so  great  that  he  returned  to 
his  father,  crying : 

'  She  has  brought  Louise  with  her  ! 

1  Louise  I  Ah,  that's  a  capital  idea  ! '  Chanteau  ex- 
claimed. 

And  when  the  girls  stood  side  by  side  before  him,  the 
one  still  in  her  deep  mourning  and  the  other  in  her  gay 
summer  toilette,  he  continued,  delighted  with  this  new 
distraction : 

'  Ah,  so  you  have  made  peace !  Well,  I  never  quite 
understood  what  was  the  matter — some  nonsense,  I  suppose. 
How  naughty  it  was  of  you,  my  poor  Louisette,  to  keep 
estranged  from  us  during  all  the  trouble  we've  been  through! 
Well ;  it's  all  at  an  end  now,  eh  ?  ' 

A  feeling  of  embarrassment  kept  the  girls  silent.  They 
blushed  and  avoided  looking  at  each  other.  Then  Louise 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  229 

stepped  forward  and  kissed  Chanteau  to  hide  her  confusion. 
But  he  wanted  some  explanations. 

'  You  met  each  other,  I  suppose.' 

Thereupon  Louise  turned  towards  her  friend,  while  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  It  was  Pauline  who  came  to  see  us.  I  was  just  going 
back  into  the  house  myself  when  she  arrived.  You  mustn't 
scold  her  for  staying  the  night  with  us,  for  it  was  my  fault. 
I  made  her  stay.  And,  as  the  telegraph  goes  no  further  than 
Arromanches,  we  thought  we  should  get  here  ourselves 
as  soon  as  any  message.  Do  you  forgive  me  ?  ' 

She  kissed  Chanteau  again  with  all  her  old  caressing 
manner.  He  inquired  no  further.  When  what  happened 
contributed  to  his  pleasure,  he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  it. 

'  But  there's  Lazare,'  he  added ;  '  aren't  you  going  to 
speak  to  him  ? ' 

The  young  man  had  kept  in  the  background,  with  an 
embarrassed  smile  on  his  face.  His  father's  remark  com- 
pleted his  confusion,  the  more  especially  as  Louise  only 
blushed  again  and  made  no  step  towards  him.  Why  was  she 
there,  he  asked  himself  ?  Why  had  his  cousin  brought  back 
this  rival,  whom  she  had  so  violently  driven  away  ?  He 
had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  confusion  at  the  sight  of 
her. 

1  Kiss  her,  Lazare  ! '  said  Pauline  softly,  '  since  she  is  too 
timid  to  kiss  you.' 

Her  face  was  quite  white,  as  she  stood  there  in  her  deep 
mourning,  but  her  expression  was  perfectly  peaceful,  and  her 
eyes  clear  and  untroubled.  She  looked  at  them  both  with 
the  maternal,  serious  expression  which  she  assumed  in  her 
graver  moments  of  household  responsibility,  and  only  smiled 
when  the  young  man  took  courage  to  let  his  lips  just  touch 
the  cheek  which  Louise  offered  him. 

When  V6ronique  saw  this,  she  rushed  away  and  shut 
herself  up  in  her  kitchen,  perfectly  thunderstruck.  It  was 
altogether  beyond  her  comprehension.  After  all  that  had 
passed,  Mademoiselle  Pauline  could  have  very  little  heart. 
She  was  becoming  quite  ridiculous  in  her  desire  to  please 
others.  It  wasn't  sufficient  to  bring  all  the  dirty  little  drabs 
of  the  neighbourhood  into  the  house  and  put  them  in  the 
way  of  walking  off  with  the  silver,  but  now  she  must  bring 
sweethearts  for  Monsieur  Lazare  I  The  house  was  getting 
into  a  nice  state  indeed  1 


230  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

When  she  had  vented  a  little  of  her  indignation  in  this 
explosion  over  her  fire,  she  went  out  on  to  the  terrace  again, 
exclaiming,  '  Don't  you  know  that  lunch  has  been  ready  for 
more  than  an  hour  ?  The  potatoes  are  fried  to  cinders  ! ' 

They  all  ate  with  good  appetites,  but  Chanteau  was  the 
only  one  whose  mirth  flowed  freely,  and  fortunately  he  was 
too  gay  to  notice  the  persistent  constraint  of  the  others. 
Though  they  showed  themselves  very  affectionate,  still, 
beneath  it  all,  there  lurked  a  touch  of  that  uneasy  sadness 
which  manifests  itself  in  one  who  forgives  an  irreparable 
insult,  but  cannot  altogether  forget  it.  The  afternoon  was 
spent  in  installing  the  newcomer  in  her  room.  She  again 
occupied  her  old  quarters  on  the  first  floor.  If  Madame 
Chanteau  could  only  have  come  downstairs  to  dinner,  with 
her  quick,  short  step,  nothing  would  have  appeared  changed 
in  the  house. 

For  nearly  a  week  longer  this  uneasy  constraint  lasted 
amongst  the  young  people.  Lazare,  who  did  not  dare  to 
question  Pauline,  was  altogether  unable  to  understand  what 
he  considered  her  most  extraordinary  caprice ;  for  any  idea 
of  a  sacrifice,  of  a  determination  deliberately  and  magnani- 
mously taken,  never  occurred  to  him.  He  himself,  amidst 
the  desires  fanned  by  his  listless  idleness,  had  never  thought 
of  marrying  Louise  ;  and  so  now,  on  being  all  three  placed 
together  again,  they  found  themselves  in  a  false  position, 
which  caused  them  much  distress.  There  were  pauses  of 
silent  embarrassment,  and  sentences  that  remained  half 
unspoken  from  fear  of  conveying  any  allusion  to  the  past. 
Pauline,  surprised  at  this  unexpected  state  of  affairs,  was 
obliged  to  exaggerate  and  force  her  gaiety,  in  the  hope  of 
bringing  back  a  semblance  of  the  careless  merriment  of 
former  days.  At  first  she  felt  a  wave  of  joy  rising  in  her 
heart,  for  she  thought  that  Lazare  was  coming  back  to 
her.  The  presence  of  Louise  had  calmed  him ;  he  almost 
avoided  her,  and  shunned  being  alone  with  her,  horrified 
at  the  thought  that  he  might  even  yet  be  weak  enough 
to  betray  his  cousin's  confidence.  Tortured  by  a  feverish 
affection  for  Pauline,  he  attached  himself  to  her,  and  in  tones 
of  emotion  proclaimed  her  to  be  the  best  of  girls,  a  true  saint, 
of  whom  he  was  utterly  unworthy.  And  so  she  felt  very 
happy,  and  rejoiced  greatly  in  what  she  thought  was  her 
victory,  when  she  saw  her  cousin  pay  such  little  attention  to 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  231 

Louise.  At  the  end  of  the  week  she  even  began  to  reproach 
him  for  his  want  of  amiability  towards  her  rival. 

'  Why  do  you  always  run  off  and  leave  us  ?  It  really 
quite  vexes  me.  She  isn't  here  for  us  to  be  rude  to  her.' 

Lazare  avoided  replying,  making  only  a  vague  gesture. 
Then  his  cousin  ventured  to  make  an  allusion  to  what  had 
previously  happened : 

'  I  brought  her  here  so  that  you  might  know  that  I  have 
long  ago  forgiven  you.  I  wanted  to  wipe  out  every  remem- 
brance of  it,  as  though  it  were  all  some  horrid  dream.  It  is 
done  with  now.  I  am  no  longer  afraid,  you  see.  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  you  both.' 

At  this  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he  promised  to 
be  courteous  and  amiable  with  Louise. 

From  that  moment  they  spent  their  days  in  delightful 
intimacy.  Lazare  no  longer  seemed  to  suffer  from  ennui. 
Instead  of  shutting  himself  up  in  his  room  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  like  a  recluse,  and  making  himself  ill  with  very  lone- 
liness, he  invented  amusements  and  arranged  long  walks, 
from  which  they  came  back  home  glowing,  invigorated  by 
the  fresh  air.  And  it  was  now  that  Louise  by  slow  degrees 
began  to  recover  all  her  old  sway  over  him.  The  young 
man  grew  quite  at  his  ease  with  her  again,  and  once  more 
offered  his  arm,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  thrilled  afresh  by 
that  disturbing  perfume  which  every  fold  of  the  girl's  lace 
seemed  to  exhale.  At  first  he  struggled  against  her  growing 
influence  over  him,  and  tried  to  escape  from  her  as  soon  as 
he  found  himself  becoming  intoxicated  with  her  witchery. 
But  Pauline  herself  bade  him  go  to  the  girl's  assistance 
when  they  had  to  leap  over  a  pool  as  they  skirted  the  shore. 
She  herself  jumped  over  it  boldly,  like  a  boy,  disdaining 
all  help ;  whereas  Louise,  with  a  soft  cry  like  that  of  a 
wounded  lark,  surrendered  herself  to  the  young  man's  arms. 
Then,  as  they  returned  home  again,  and  he  supported  her, 
all  the  low  laughter  and  whispered  confidences  of  former 
days  began  anew.  But  Pauline  was,  as  yet,  in  no  way 
distressed  by  this ;  she  maintained  her  brave  expression, 
without  guessing  that  she  was  risking  her  happiness  by  never 
feeling  weary  or  requiring  the  assistance  of  her  cousin's  arm. 
It  was  with  a  kind  of  smiling  bravado  that  she  made  the 
others  walk  in  front  of  her,  arm-in-arm,  as  though  she 
wanted  to  show  them  how  great  was  her  confidence. 


232  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Neither  Lazare  nor  Louise,  indeed,  had  the  slightest 
idea  of  taking  advantage  of  the  trust  she  reposed  in  them. 
Though  the  young  man  was  again  bewitched  by  Louise,  he 
perpetually  struggled  against  her  influence  and  made  a  point 
of  showing  himself  more  affectionate  than  before  to  his 
cousin.  In  Louise's  society,  whilst  ever  finding  some  charm 
by  which  he  allowed  himself  to  be  deliciously  beguiled,  he 
was  always  protesting  to  himself  that  this  time  the  game 
should  not  go  beyond  the  limits  of  permissible  flirtation. 
Why,  he  asked  himself,  should  he  deny  himself  some  pleasant 
little  amusement,  since  he  was  quite  determined  to  go  no 
further  ?  Louise,  too,  felt  more  scruples  than  formerly ; 
not  that  she  accused  herself  of  previous  coquetry,  for  she 
was  naturally  of  a  caressing  disposition,  but  now  she  would 
neither  have  done  nor  said  anything  that  she  thought  might 
be  in  the  least  degree  distasteful  to  Pauline.  Her  friend's 
forgiveness  of  what  had  passed  had  moved  her  to  tears. 
She  wanted  to  show  that  she  was  worthy  of  it,  and  seemed 
to  regard  her  with  that  exuberant  feminine  adoration 
which  finds  expression  in  vows  and  kisses  and  all  kinds  of 
passionate  caresses.  She  kept  a  constant  watch  upon  her,  so 
that  she  might  run  up  to  her  at  the  first  appearance  of  dis- 
pleasure. At  times  she  would  abruptly  leave  Lazare's  arm 
for  Pauline's,  and  try  to  enliven  her,  and  even  pretend  to 
sulk  with  the  young  man.  Never  before  had  Louise  appeared 
so  charming  as  she  did  now  in  this  constant  state  of  emotion, 
which  arose  from  the  necessity  she  felt  of  pleasing  both 
Pauline  and  Lazare  ;  and  the  whole  house  seemed  alive  with 
the  rustle  of  her  skirts  and  her  pretty  wheedling  ways. 

Little  by  little,  however,  Pauline  became  quite  wretched 
again.  Her  temporary  hope  and  momentary  feeling  of 
triumph  only  served  to  increase  her  pain.  She  no  longer 
experienced  the  violent  paroxysms  and  wild  outbursts  of 
jealousy  which  had  once  quite  distracted  her.  Hers  was 
rather  a  sensation  of  having  life  slowly  crushed  out  of 
her,  as  though  some  heavy  mass  had  fallen  on  her  with  a 
weight  which  bore  her  down  more  and  more  each  passing 
minute.  She  felt  that  everything  was  over,  that  hope  was  no 
longer  possible  for  her.  And  yet  she  had  no  reasonable  ground 
of  complaint  against  the  two  others.  They  showed  the 
greatest  thoughtfulness  and  affection  for  her,  and  struggled 
earnestly  against  the  influences  which  attracted  them  towards 
each  other.  But  it  was  this  very  show  of  affection  which 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  233 

especially  tortured  her,  for  she  began  to  see  that  they  were 
prompted  by  a  desire  to  prevent  her  from  feeling  pained  by 
their  love  for  one  another.  The  pity  of  those  young  lovers 
was  unendurable  to  her.  When  she  left  them  together,  were 
there  not  soft  confessions  and  rapid  whisperings,  and  then, 
when  she  joined  them  again,  a  sudden  relapse  into  silence, 
after  which  Louise  lavished  kisses  upon  her  and  Lazare 
evinced  affectionate  humility  ?  She  would  have  preferred  to 
know  that  they  were  really  in  the  wrong,  for  all  those  honour- 
able scruples  and  compensatory  caresses,  which  plainly  told 
her  the  real  truth,  left  her  quite  disarmed,  with  neither  the 
will  nor  the  energy  to  try  to  win  back  her  own  happiness.  On 
the  day  when  she  had  brought  her  rival  to  Bonneville  she  had 
intended  to  hold  her  own  against  her,  if  she  found  any  struggle 
necessary ;  but  what  could  she  do  against  a  couple  of  children 
whose  love  for  each  other  was  such  a  source  of  distress  to 
them  ?  It  was  her  own  doing,  too  ;  she  might  have  married 
Lazare,  had  she  chosen,  without  troubling  herself  about  his 
possible  preference  for  someone  else.  But,  in  spite  of  her 
jealous  torments,  her  heart  rebelled  against  the  idea  of  exacting 
from  him  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise — a  promise  which  he  no 
doubt  now  regretted.  Though  it  should  kill  her  to  do  so,  she 
would  give  him  up  rather  than  marry  him  if  he  loved  another. 
Meanwhile  she  still  went  on  playing  the  part  of  mother  to 
her  little  family ;  nursing  Chanteau,  who  was  not  going  on 
very  satisfactorily,  soothing  Ve'ronique,  whose  sense  of  pro- 
priety was  seriously  offended,  to  say  nothing  of  pretending  to 
treat  Lazare  and  Louise  as  a  pair  of  disorderly  children  in 
order  that  she  might  be  able  to  smile  at  their  escapades.  She 
succeeded  in  forcing  herself  to  laugh  even  more  loudly  than 
they  did,  with  that  clear,  ringing  laugh  of  hers,  whose  limpid 
notes  testified  to  her  healthy  courage.  The  whole  house 
seemed  gay  and  animated.  She  herself  affected  a  bustling 
activity  from  morning  till  night,  refusing  to  accompany  the 
young  couple  in  their  walks,  on  the  pretence  that  she  had  to 
undertake  a  general  cleaning  of  the  house,  or  see  after  the 
washing,  or  superintend  the  making  of  preserves.  It  was,  how- 
ever, more  particularly  Lazare  who  had  now  become  noisy  and 
energetic.  He  went  whistling  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
drummed  on  the  doors,  and  found  the  days  too  short  and  un- 
eventful. Although  he  did  not  actually  do  anything,  his 
new  passion  seemed  to  find  him  more  occupation  than  he 
had  either  time  or  strength  for.  Once  more  he  intended  to 


234  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

conquer  the  world,  and  every  day  at  dinner  he  expounded  fresh 
extraordinary  schemes  for  the  future.  He  had  already  grown 
disgusted  with  the  idea  of  literature,  and  had  abandoned  all 
notion  of  reading  for  the  examinations  which  he  had  intended 
to  pass  in  order  to  enable  him  to  take  up  a  professorship.  For 
a  long  time  he  had  made  this  intention  of  studying  an  excuse 
for  shutting  himself  up  in  solitude  in  his  room  ;  but  he  had 
there  felt  so  discouraged  that  he  had  never  opened  a  book, 
and  now  he  began  to  scoff  at  his  own  foolishness  in  ever  con- 
templating such  a  thing.  Could  anything  be  more  idiotic 
than  to  chain  himself  down  to  a  life  like  that  in  order  to  be 
able  at  some  future  time  to  write  a  lot  of  plays  and  novels  ? 
No !  Politics  alone  were  worthy  of  his  ambition ;  and  he  had 
now  quite  made  up  his  mind.  He  had  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  the  Deputy  for  Caen,  and  he  would  go  with  him  to  Paris 
as  his  secretary,  and,  doubtless,  in  a  few  months'  time  he 
would  make  his  way.  The  Empire  was  in  great  want  of 
intelligent  young  men. 

When  Pauline,  whom  this  wild  whirl  of  ideas  made  un- 
easy, tried  to  calm  his  ambitious  fever  by  advising  him  to 
look  out  for  some  smaller  but  safer  berth,  he  scoffed  at  hei 
prudence  and  jokingly  called  her  '  an  old  grandmother.' 

One  day,  when  Lazare  and  Louise  had  gone  by  themselves 
to  Verchemont,  Pauline  had  need  of  a  recipe  for  freshening 
some  old  velvet,  and  she  went  upstairs  to  search  for  it  in  her 
cousin's  big  wardrobe,  where  she  thought  she  recollected 
having  seen  it  on  a  scrap  of  paper  between  the  pages  of  a  book. 
While  she  was  looking  for  it  she  discovered  amongst  some 
pamphlets  Louise's  old  glove,  that  forgotten  glove,  the  contem- 
plation of  which  had  so  often  filled  Lazare  with  intoxication. 
It  proved  a  ray  of  light  to  Pauline.  She  recognised  in  it  the 
object  which  her  cousin  had  hidden  from  her  with  such 
emotion  that  evening  when  she  had  suddenly  entered  his 
room  to  tell  him  that  dinner  was  ready.  She  fell  upon  a 
chair,  quite  overcome  by  the  revelation.  Ah !  he  had  been 
longing  for  that  girl  before  ever  she  had  returned  to  the  house  ; 
he  had  lived  on  his  recollections  of  her,  and  he  had  worn  that 
glove  away  with  his  lips  because  it  retained  some  scent  of  her 
person!  Pauline's  whole  body  was  shaken  by  sobs,  while 
her  streaming  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the  glove,  which  she 
held  in  her  trembling  hands. 

'  Well,  Mademoiselle,  have  you  found  it  yet  ? '  called 
Ve'ronique,  who  had  just  come  upstairs  from  the  landing. 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  235 

1  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  rub  the  stuff  with  a  piece  of 
bacon-rind.' 

She  came  into  the  room,  and  seemed  quite  amazed  at  find- 
ing Pauline  in  tears,  with  her  fingers  clutching  the  old  glove. 
But  as  she  glanced  round  the  room  she  at  last  guessed  the 
cause  of  the  girl's  despair. 

'  Well !  well ! '  she  said,  in  the  rough  way  that  was 
becoming  more  and  more  habitual  to  her,  '  you  might  have 
expected  it !  I  warned  you  how  it  would  be,  long  ago.  You 
brought  them  together  again,  and  now  they  amuse  themselves. 
And  perhaps  my  mistress  was  right,  after  all ;  that  kitten  of  a 
girl  brightens  him  up  more  than  you  do.' 

Then  she  shook  her  head,  and  added  in  a  grave  voice,  as 
though  she  was  speaking  to  herself : 

1  Ah  1  my  mistress  had  a  very  clear  eyesight,  in  spite  of  her 
faults.  For  my  part,  I  can't  bring  myself  to  think  that  she  is 
really  dead.' 

That  evening,  when  Pauline  had  locked  herself  in  her  room 
and  placed  her  candlestick  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  she  threw 
herself  upon  her  bed,  repeating  that  she  must  get  Louise 
and  Lazare  married.  All  day  long  a  buzzing  sensation  had 
made  her  head  throb  and  prevented  her  from  thinking  clearly  ; 
and  it  was  only  now,  in  the  quiet  night-time,  when  she  was 
able  to  suffer  without  witnesses  of  her  trouble,  that  the  in- 
evitable consequence  of  what  had  happened  presented  itself 
clearly  to  her  mind.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  Lazare 
and  Louise  should  marry.  The  thought  rang  through  her  like 
an  order,  like  the  voice  of  reason  and  justice,  to  which  she  could 
no  longer  turn  a  deaf  ear.  For  a  moment  she,  who  was  so 
courageous,  gave  way  to  terror,  fancying  she  heard  her  dead  aunt 
calling  out  to  her  to  obey.  Then,  all  dressed  as  she  was,  she 
turned  over  and  covered  herself  with  the  bedclothes  to  drown 
the  sound  of  her  sobs.  Oh !  to  have  to  surrender  him  to  another ! 
To  know  that  another's  arms  would  be  clasped  round  him  and 
would  keep  him  from  her  for  ever  !  To  lose  all  hope  of  ever 
winning  him  back !  No  1  she  could  never  have  enough 
courage  for  it ;  she  would  prefer  to  continue  leading  her 
present  life  of  wretchedness.  No  one  at  all  should  have  him, 
neither  herself  nor  that  other  girl ;  and  Lazare  should  grow 
old  and  withered  with  waiting!  For  a  long  time  she  lay 
struggling  with  herself,  racked  by  jealous  fury.  Her  impetuous 
temperament,  which  neither  years  nor  reflection  had  been 
able  to  subdue,  always  asserted  itself  at  the  first  moment  of  a 


236  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

difficulty.  Then,  however,  she  became  prostrate,  physically 
exhausted. 

Too  tired  and  weary  to  undress,  Pauline  lay  for  a  long 
time  on  her  back,  debating  the  question.  She  succeeded  in 
proving  to  herself  that  Louise  could  do  more  to  secure  Lazare's 
happiness  than  she  ever  could.  Had  not  that  girl,  so  weak 
and  puny,  already  roused  him  from  his  ennui  with  her 
caresses  ?  Doubtless  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  have  her 
continually  clinging  to  his  neck,  that  she  might  drive  away 
with  kisses  all  his  gloomy  thoughts,  his  terror  of  death.  Then 
Pauline  fell  to  depreciating  herself,  repeating  that  she  was 
too  cold  and  had  none  of  the  amorous  graces  of  a  woman, 
but  only  kindliness,  which  was  not  sufficient  allurement.  One 
other  consideration,  too,  brought  her  complete  conviction.  She 
was  ruined,  and  her  cousin's  plans  for  the  future,  those  plans 
which  had  caused  her  so  much  anxiety,  would  require  a  large 
amount  of  money  for  accomplishment.  Would  it  be  right  for 
her  to  impose  on  him  the  narrow,  sordid  life  which  they  were 
now  obliged  to  lead,  condemn  him  to  mediocrity,  which  she 
could  see  was  painful  to  him  ?  Their  life  together  would  be 
unhappy,  poisoned  by  continual  regret,  the  querulous  bitter- 
ness of  disappointed  ambition.  She  could  only  give  him  a 
rancorous  life  of  poverty ;  whereas  Louise,  who  was  wealthy, 
could  open  out  to  him  the  great  career  of  which  he  dreamed. 
It  was  said  that  the  girl's  father  was  keeping  some  good  berth 
vacant  for  his  future  son-in-law,  probably  some  lucrative 
position  in  the  bank  ;  and,  though  Lazare  affected  to  despise 
financiers,  matters  would  no  doubt  be  satisfactorily  arranged. 
She  felt  that  she  could  hesitate  no  longer,  now  that  it  seemed 
clear  to  her  that  she  would  be  committing  an  unworthy  action 
if  she  did  not  marry  them  together.  And  as  she  lay  awake 
on  her  bed,  that  union  of  Lazare  and  Louise  seemed  to  her 
to  be  a  necessity,  which  she  must  hasten  if  she  wanted  to 
preserve  her  own  self-respect. 

The  whole  night  passed  while  she  was  thus  wrestling  with 
herself.  "When  the  day  broke,  she  at  last  undressed.  She 
was  perfectly  calm  now,  and  enjoyed  profound  repose,  though 
still  unable  to  sleep.  She  had  never  before  felt  so  easy,  so 
satisfied  with  herself,  so  free  from  all  anxiety.  All  was  end- 
ing ;  she  had  just  severed  the  bonds  of  egotism,  she  had  no 
hopes  now  centred  in  any  person  or  thing,  and  within  her 
lurked  all  the  subtle  pleasure  that  comes  of  self-sacrifice.  She 
did  not  even  experience  any  longer  her  old  craving  to  prove 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  237 

all-sufficient  for  the  happiness  of  her  people.  The  pride  of 
abnegation  had  vanished,  and  she  was  willing  that  those  she 
loved  should  be  happy  through  other  instrumentality  than  her 
own.  It  was  the  loftiest  height  which  love  for  others  can 
reach,  to  suppress  one's  self,  to  give  up  everything  and  still 
think  one  has  not  given  enough,  to  love  so  deeply  as  to 
rejoice  in  a  happiness  which  one  has  neither  bestowed  nor 
shares.  The  sun  was  rising  when  she  at  last  dropped  off  into 
a  deep  sleep. 

Pauline  came  downstairs  very  late  that  morning.  When 
she  awoke,  it  made  her  happy  to  find  that  all  the  resolutions 
she  had  taken  during  the  night  remained  fixed  and  unwavering 
within  her.  But  she  began  to  reflect  that  she  had  forgotten 
what  would  become  of  herself,  and  that  she  must  make  some 
plans  for  her  future  altered  circumstances.  Though  she 
might  have  the  courage  to  bring  about  the  marriage  of  Lazare 
and  Louise,  she  would  certainly  never  be  brave  enough  to 
remain  with  them  and  watch  their  happiness.  Self-devotion 
has  its  limits,  and  she  was  afraid  of  some  return  of  her  violent 
outbursts,  some  terrible  scene  which  would  kill  her.  Besides, 
was  she  not  really  doing  all  that  could  possibly  be  demanded  of 
her,  and  could  anyone  have  the  cruelty  to  impose  useless  torture 
upon  her?  She  came  to  an  immediate  and  irrevocable 
decision.  She  would  go  away,  leave  the  house,  which  was  so 
full  of  disquieting  associations.  This  would  mean  a  complete 
change  in  her  life,  but  she  did  not  shrink  from  it. 

At  breakfast  she  showed  a  calm  cheerfulness,  which  she 
henceforth  maintained.  She  bravely  endured  the  sight  of 
Lazare  and  Louise,  sitting  side  by  side,  whispering  and 
smiling,  without  any  other  feeling  of  weakness  than  a  chilly 
coldness  at  her  heart.  As  it  was  Saturday,  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  send  them  out  for  a  long  walk  together  in  order  that 
she  might  be  alone  when  Doctor  Cazenove  came.  They  went 
off,  and  Pauline  then  took  the  precaution  of  going  out  into  the 
road  to  meet  the  Doctor.  As  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her 
he  wanted  her  to  get  up  into  his  gig  and  drive  to  the  house 
with  him.  But  she  begged  him  to  alight,  and  they  walked 
along  slowly  together,  while  Martin,  a  hundred  yards  in  the 
rear,  brought  on  the  empty  vehicle. 

In  a  few  simple  words  Pauline  unbosomed  herself  to  the 
Doctor.  She  told  him  everything — her  plan  of  giving  Lazare 
to  Louise  and  her  determination  to  leave  the  house.  This 
confession  had  seemed  necessary  to  her ;  she  was  unwilling  to 


238  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

act  upon  mere  inspiration,  and  the  old  doctor  was  the  only 
person  who  could  understand  her. 

Cazenove  suddenly  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and 
clasped  the  girl  in  his  long  bony  arms.  He  was  trembling 
with  emotion,  and  he  kissed  her  on  the  hair,  as  he  said 
affectionately : 

'  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear ;  you  are  quite  right.  And 
it  pleases  me  very  much  to  hear  it,  for  matters  might  have 
had  a  much  worse  ending.  For  months  past  I  have  been  feeling 
grieved,  and  I  was  longing  to  come  and  talk  to  you,  for  I  knew 
you  were  very  unhappy.  Ah  !  they  have  plundered  you  and 
stripped  you  nicely,  those  good  folks !  First  your  money  and 
now  your  heart ! ' 

The  young  girl  tried  to  stop  him. 

'  My  dear  friend,  I  beg  you You  are  judging  them 

unfairly.' 

'  Perhaps  so,  but  that  does  not  prevent  me  from  being 
glad  on  your  account.  Yes,  yes !  Give  up  your  Lazare !  It 
is  not  a  very  valuable  present  that  you  are  making  to  the 
other  one !  I  daresay  that  he  is  a  very  charming  fellow,  and 
that  he  has  the  best  intentions  in  the  world ;  but  I  prefer  that 
the  other  should  be  unhappy  with  him,  and  not  you.  Those 
fine  fellows  who  grow  bored  with  everything  are  far  too  heavy 
even  for  broad  shoulders  like  yours  to  support.  I  would 
rather  see  you  marry  some  sturdy  butcher-lad — yes,  I  mean 
it — some  butcher-lad  who  would  shake  his  sides  day  and  night 
with  honest,  merry  laughter.' 

Then,  as  he  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  he  added : 

'  Ah,  well !  you  love  him,  I  suppose,  and  so  I  won't  say 
anything  more.  Give  me  a  kiss  again,  since  you  are  brave 
enough  to  act  so  sensibly.  Ah  !  what  a  fool  he  is  not  to  see 
what  he  is  doing ! ' 

He  took  her  arm  and  drew  her  close  to  his  side.  Then 
they  began  to  talk  seriously  together  as  they  resumed  their 
walk.  The  Doctor  told  her  that  she  would  certainly  do  best 
to  leave  Bonneville,  and  he  undertook  to  find  her  a  situation. 
He  happened,  he  said,  to  have  a  rich  old  relative  living  at 
Saint-L6,  who  was  looking  for  a  young  lady  companion. 
Pauline  would  be  perfectly  happy  with  her,  and  very  likely  the 
old  lady,  who  had  no  children  of  her  own,  would  grow  much 
attached  to  her  and  subsequently  adopt  her.  They  arranged 
everything  between  themselves,  and  the  Doctor  promised 
Pauline  a  definite  reply  from  his  relative  in  a  few  days'  time. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  239 

Meanwhile  it  was  settled  she  should  say  nothing  about 
her  determination  to  leave  the  Chanteaus.  She  was  afraid 
that  if  she  did  it  might  seem  to  be  in  some  way  a  threat,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  bring  the  marriage  to  an  issue  and  then 
immediately  leave  the  house  like  one  who  could  no  longer  be 
of  use  there. 

On  the  third  day  Pauline  received  a  letter  from  the  Doctor. 
She  was  expected  at  Saint-L6  as  soon  as  she  could  get  away. 
It  was  on  this  same  day,  during  Lazare's  absence,  that  she 
led  Louise  to  an  old  seat  beneath  a  clump  of  tamarisks  at  the 
bottom  of  the  kitchen-garden.  In  front  of  them,  above  the 
low  wall,  they  could  see  nothing  but  the  sea  and  sky — a 
measureless  expanse  of  blue,  intersected  by  the  far-stretching 
line  of  the  horizon. 

'  My  dear  girl,'  said  Pauline  to  Louise  with  her  maternal 
air,  '  let  us  talk  as  though  we  were  two  sisters.  You  love 
me  a  little,  don't  you  ? ' 

Louise  threw  one  arm  round  her  friend's  waist  as  she 
exclaimed : 

'  Indeed  I  do !    You  know  I  do  1 ' 

'  Well,  then,  since  you  love  me,  it  was  very  wrong  of  you 
not  to  tell  me  everything.  Why  do  you  keep  secrets  from 
me?' 

'  Indeed,  I  have  no  secrets.' 

'  Ah  !  yes  ;  think  again  now.  Come,  open  your  heart  to 
me.' 

Each  looked  into  the  other's  face  so  closely  for  a  moment 
that  they  felt  the  warmth  of  one  another's  breath.  And  the 
eyes  of  one  gradually  grew  troubled  beneath  the  clear,  unruffled 
gaze  of  the  other.  The  silence  was  growing  painful. 

1  Tell  me  everything.  When  things  are  discussed  openly 
it  is  possible  to  arrange  them  satisfactorily,  but  dissimulation 
is  apt  to  have  an  unhappy  ending.  Isn't  that  so,  eh  ?  It 
would  be  very  painful  for  us  to  disagree  again  and  to  have  a 
repetition  of  what  caused  us  so  much  grief  and  trouble.' 

At  this  Louise  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  sobbing.  She 
clasped  Pauline  round  the  waist  convulsively,  and  hid  her 
face  against  her  friend's  shoulder  while  stammering  amidst 
her  tears : 

'  Oh  I  it  is  very  unkind  of  you  to  speak  of  that  again  ! 
You  ought  never  to  have  mentioned  it  again,  never  1  Send 
me  away  at  once,  rather  than  pain  me  like  this ! ' 

It  was  in  vain  that  Pauline  tried  to  soothe  her. 


240  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

1  No,  no  ! '  the  weeping  girl  went  on ;  '  I  understand  it  all. 
You  still  suspect  me.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  of  secrets  ? 
I  have  no  secret  at  all.  I  do  everything  quite  openly,  so  that 
you  may  have  no  cause  to  find  fault  with  me  or  reproach  me. 
I  am  not  to  blame  because  things  happen  which  disturb  you 
— I  who  am  even  careful  how  I  laugh,  though  you  don't  know 

it But,  if  you  don't  believe  me,  I  had  better  go  away 

at  once.  Let  me  go  !  Let  me  go ! ' 

They  were  quite  alone  in  that  far-reaching  space.  The 
kitchen-garden,  scorched  by  the  west  wind,  lay  at  their  feet 
like  a  piece  of  waste  land,  while,  further  away,  the  calm  sea 
spread  out  in  its  immensity. 

'  But  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say,'  Pauline  cried.  '  I  am 
not  reproaching  you  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  I  want  to  en- 
courage you.' 

Then,  taking  Louise  by  the  shoulders  and  forcing  her  to 
raise  her  eyes,  she  said  to  her  gently,  like  a  mother  question- 
ing her  daughter : 

'  You  love  Lazare  ?    And  he,  too,  loves  you,  I  am  sure.1 

The  blood  surged  to  Louise's  cheeks.  She  trembled  yet 
more  violently,  and  tried  to  liberate  herself  and  escape. 

'  Good  gracious !  How  clumsily  I  must  express  myself  if 
you  can't  understand  me  ! '  Pauline  resumed.  '  Do  you  think 
I  should  talk  to  you  on  such  a  subject  only  to  torture  you  ? 
You  love  each  other,  don't  you  ?  Well,  I  want  to  get  you 
married  to  one  another  !  It's  very  simple  ! ' 

Louise,  distracted,  ceased  to  struggle.  Stupor  checked 
the  flow  of  her  tears,  rendered  her  motionless,  with  her 
hands  hanging  inertly  beside  her. 

'  What !     And  yourself  ?  '  she  gasped. 

'  I,  my  dear  ?  Well,  I  have  been  questioning  myself  very 
seriously  for  some  weeks  past,  at  night-time  especially,  during 
those  waking  hours  when  one's  mind  sees  things  in  a  clearer 
light.  And  I  have  recognised  that  I  only  feel  sincere  friend- 
ship for  Lazare.  Haven't  you  been  able  to  see  as  much  for 
yourself  ?  We  are  comrades,  chums  ;  like  a  couple  of  boys,  in 
fact.  We  do  not  feel  those  loving  transports ' 

She  hesitated,  trying  to  find  some  suitable  phrase  which 
would  give  an  appearance  of  probability  to  her  falsehoods. 
But  her  rival  still  gazed  at  her  with  fixed  eyes,  as  though  she 
had  discovered  the  meaning  which  was  hidden  beneath  her 
words. 

'  Why  do  you  tell  me  untruths  ? '  she  murmured  at  last. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  241 

'  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  cease  to  love  where  you  have  once 
loved  ? ' 

Pauline  grew  confused. 

'  Well !  well ! '  she  said ;  '  what  does  that  matter  ?  You 
love  each  other,  and  it  is  quite  natural  that  he  should  marry 
you.  I — I  was  brought  up  with  him,  and  I  shall  continue  to 
be  a  sister  to  him.  One's  ideas  alter  when  one  has  been 

waiting  so  long And,  then,  there  are    several   other 

reasons ' 

She  was  conscious  that  she  was  growing  more  confused, 
and,  carried  away  by  her  frankness,  she  went  on  : 

'  Oh  !  my  dear,  let  me  have  my  way.  If  I  still  love  him 
sufficiently  to  want  to  see  him  your  husband,  it  is  because  I 
now  believe  that  you  are  necessary  to  his  happiness.  That 
doesn't  vex  you,  does  it  ?  You  would  do  the  same  if  you  were 
in  my  place,  would  you  not  ?  Come,  let  us  talk  it  over 
quietly.  Will  you  join  in  the  little  plot  ?  Shall  we  come  to  an 
understanding  together  to  force  him  into  being  happy  ?  Even 
if  he  seems  vexed  about  it  and  persists  in  believing  that  he  is 
yet  bound  to  me,  you  must  help  me  to  persuade  him,  for 
it  is  you  whom  he  loves,  and  it  is  you  who  are  necessary  to 
him.  Be  my  accomplice,  I  beg  you,  and  let  us  get  everything 
arranged  at  once,  now,  while  we  are  alone.' 

But  Louise,  seeing  how  she  trembled,  how  heart-broken 
she  was  in  making  those  entreaties,  persisted  in  rebelling. 

'  No,  no !  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing !  It  would  be 
abominable.  You  still  love  him  ;  I  am  sure  of  it,  and  you  are 
only  planning  your  own  torment.  Instead  of  helping  you,  I  will 
tell  him  everything.  Yes,  as  soon  as  he  comes  back ' 

Then  Pauline  threw  her  kindly  arms  round  her  again  tc 
prevent  her  from  continuing,  and  drew  her  face  close  to  her 
breast. 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  you  wicked  child !  It  must  be  so.  It 
is  he  whom  we  have  to  think  about.' 

Silence  fell  again,  while  they  lingered  in  that  embrace. 
Her  powers  of  resistance  already  exhausted,  Louise  gave  way, 
yielded  with  affectionate  languor,  while  tears  mounted  to  her 
eves— happy  tears  that  trickled  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  She 
spoke  no  word,  but  pressed  her  friend  to  her,  as  though  she 
could  find  no  discreeter  or  more  sincere  way  of  expressing  her 
gratitude.  She  recognised  that  Pauline  was  so  much  above  her, 
so  lofty,  so  self-sacrificing,  that  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  to 
meet  her  gaze.  However,  after  a  few  minutes,  she  ventured  to 

B 


242  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

lift  her  head  in  smiling  confusion,  and  then,  protruding  her 
lips,  gave  her  friend  a  silent  kiss.  In  the  distance  the  sea 
stretched  out  beneath  the  cloudless  sky  without  a  single  wave 
breaking  on  its  blue  immensity. 

When  Lazare  returned  to  the  house,  Pauline  went  up  to 
him  in  his  room,  that  big  and  well-loved  chamber  where  they 
had  grown  up  together.  She  was  anxious  to  finish  her  task 
that  very  day.  With  her  cousin  she  sought  no  preliminary 
remarks,  but  went  straight  to  the  point.  The  room  teemed 
with  associations  of  their  old  life.  Pieces  of  dry  seaweed  still 
lay  about  there,  the  models  of  the  stockades  littered  the  piano, 
and  the  table  was  strewn  with  scientific  treatises  and  scores 
of  music. 

'Lazare,'  she  began,  'I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  have 
something  serious  to  say  to  you.' 

He  seemed  surprised,  and  then  took  his  stand  before  her. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ?  Is  my  father  threatened  with 
another  attack  ? ' 

'  No,  listen.  It  is  necessary  that  the  subject  should  now 
be  mentioned ;  keeping  silence  about  it  cannot  do  any  good. 
You  know  that  my  aunt  intended  we  should  be  married. 
We  have  frequently  spoken  about  it,  and  for  months  past  it 
has  been  considered  a  settled  matter.  Well,  I  think  that  it 
would  now  be  better  if  all  thought  of  it  were  abandoned.' 

The  young  man  had  turned  pale,  but  he  did  not  allow  his 
cousin  to  finish  ;  he  exclaimed  excitedly  : 

'  What  ?  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  ?  Are  you  not 
already  my  wife  ?  We  will  go  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  and  ask 
the  priest  to  put  the  finishing- stroke  to  the  matter.  And  this 
is  what  you  call  something  serious  1 ' 

The  girl  replied  in  her  tranquil  voice  : 

'  It  is  very  serious ;  and,  though  it  displeases  you,  I  repeat 
that  it  is  certainly  necessary  we  should  speak  about  it.  We 
are  two  old  friends  and  comrades,  but  I  am  afraid  we  should 
never  be  two  lovers.  So  what  is  the  good  of  obstinately 
persisting  in  an  idea  which  would  probably  never  result  in 
happiness  for  either  of  us  ?  ' 

Then  Lazare  burst  out  into  a  torrent  of  ejaculations. 
Was  she  trying  to  quarrel  with  him  ?  She  couldn't  expect 
him  to  spend  his  whole  time  clinging  round  her  neck  !  And, 
though  the  marriage  had  been  put  off  from  month  to  month, 
she  knew  quite  well  that  it  wasn't  his  fault.  It  was  unjust 
of  her,  moreover,  to  say  that  he  no  longer  loved  her.  He  had 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  243 

loved  her  so  warmly,  and  in  that  very  room  too !  At  thia 
reference  to  the  past  a  blush  mounted  to  Pauline's  cheeks. 
Her  cousin  was  right.  She  recollected  his  passing  gusts  of 
passion,  and  his  hot  breath  fanning  her  neck.  But,  ah  !  how 
far  off  were  those  delicious  thrilling  moments ;  and  what  an 
unimpassioned,  brotherly  friendship  he  manifested  for  her 
now !  So  it  was  with  an  expression  of  sadness  that  she 
replied  to  him : 

'  My  poor  fellow,  if  you  really  loved  me,  instead  of  arguing 
with  me  as  you  are  doing,  you  would  be  clasping  me  in 
your  arms  and  sobbing,  and  finding  some  very  different  way 
of  persuading  me." 

He  turned  still  paler,  and  threw  up  his  hands  with  a 
vague  gesture  of  protest  as  he  let  himself  fall  upon  a  chair. 

' No  ! '  the  girl  went  on  ;  'it  is  quite  clear  that  you  love 
me  no  longer.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  We  are,  no  doubt, 
not  suited  to  each  other.  When  we  were  shut  up  here 
together,  you  were  driven  into  thinking  about  me.  But  all 
your  fancy  vanished  later  on  ;  it  did  not  last,  because  there 
was  nothing  in  me  that  could  keep  you  to  me.' 

A  final  paroxysm  of  exasperation  carried  him  off,  and  he 
swayed  about  in  his  chair  as  he  stammered  : 

"  Well !  what  do  you  want  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this  ?  I  quietly  return  home,  and  come  up  here  to  put  on  my 
slippers,  and  then  you  suddenly  fall  on  me,  and  without  the 
least  warning  launch  out  into  an  extravagant  harangue — 
"  I  don't  love  you  any  longer  " — "  We  are  not  made  for  one 
another  " — "  The  wedding  must  be  broken  off."  Once  more 
I  ask  you,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ? ' 

Pauline,  who  had  drawn  near  him,  slowly  answered : 

'  It  means  that  you  love  someone  else,  and  that  I  advise 
you  to  marry  her.' 

For  a  moment  Lazare  remained  silent.  Then  he  began  to 
sneer.  Good  !  They  were  going  to  have  the  old  scenes  over 
again.  Everything  was  going  to  be  turned  topsy-turvy  once 
more  by  her  idiotic  jealousy !  She  couldn't  bear  to  see  him 
cheerful  even  for  a  single  day  without  wanting  to  banish 
everyone  away  from  him. 

Pauline  listened  with  an  expression  of  profound  grief ; 
then  she  suddenly  laid  her  trembling  hands  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  an  involuntary  cry  burst  from  her  heart : 

'  Oh  !  my  dear,  can  you  believe  that  I  want  to  distress 
you  ?  Can't  you  see  that  my  only  desire  is  to  make  you 

BJ 


244  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

happy  ?  I  would  endure  anything  to  win  you  a  single  hour's 
happiness.  You  love  Louise  ;  is  that  not  so  ?  Well,  I  tell 
you  to  marry  her.  Understand  me.  I  am  in  the  way  no 
longer.  Marry  her ;  I  give  her  to  you  1 ' 

Her  cousin  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  With  his 
nervous,  ill-balanced  nature  his  feelings  rushed  to  extremes 
at  the  slightest  impulse.  His  eyelids  quivered,  and  he  burst 
into  sobs. 

'  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that ! '  he  cried.  '  I  am  utterly  worth- 
less 1  Yes,  indeed,  I  despise  myself  bitterly  for  all  that  has 
happened  in  this  house  for  years  past.  I  am  deeply  in  your 
debt.  Don't  say  I  am  not!  We  took  your  money,  I 
squandered  it  like  a  fool,  and  now  I  have  sunk  so  low  that 
you  make  me  alms  of  my  word  and  promise,  and  give  them 
back  to  me  out  of  sheer  pity,  as  to  a  man  destitute  of  courage 
and  honour ! ' 

'  Lazare  !  Lazare ! '  she  murmered,  quite  frightened. 

But  he  sprang  furiously  to  his  feet  and  began  striding 
about  the  room,  drumming  on  his  breast  with  his  fists. 

'  Leave  me  !  I  should  kill  myself  straight  off  if  I  treated 
myself  as  I  deserve.  Do  I  not  owe  you  my  love  ?  Isn't  it  a 
disgrace  and  an  abomination  for  me  to  wish  for  that  other 
girl,  who  was  not  meant  for  me  and  isn't  nearly  so  good  or  so 
pretty  as  you  are  ?  When  a  man  descends  to  conduct  like 
this,  there  must  be  mud  in  his  soul !  You  see  that  I  am 
hiding  nothing  from  you,  that  I  am  not  attempting  to  defend 
myself.  Listen  to  me  !  Eather  than  accept  your  sacrifice,  I 
would  myself  turn  Louise  out  of  the  house,  and  then  go  off  to 
America  and  never  see  either  of  you  again  ! ' 

For  a  long  time  Pauline  tried  to  calm  him  and  reason 
with  him.  Couldn't  he  try  for  once,  she  asked,  to  take  life 
as  it  was,  without  any  exaggeration  ?  Couldn't  he  see  that  the 
advice  she  offered  him  was  good  advice,  resolved  upon  after 
long  deliberation  ?  The  marriage  she  advocated  would  be 
good  for  everyone.  She  was  able  to  speak  of  it  in  such  calm 
tones  because,  far  from  the  thought  of  it  paining  her,  she 
now  sincerely  wished  it.  Then,  carried  away  by  her  desire 
to  convince  him,  she  unfortunately  made  an  allusion  to 
Louise's  fortune,  and  hinted  that  Thibaudier,  when  the 
marriage  had  taken  place,  would  certainly  find  some  post  for 
bis  son-in-law. 

'  Ah  I  that's  it !  '  he  broke  out  violently.  '  You  want  to 
sell  me  now  I  Say  plainly  that  I  can  no  longer  care  for  you, 


THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE  245 

because  I  have  ruined  you,  and  that  it  only  remains  for  me 
to  be  base  enough  to  marry  a  rich  girl.  No,  no,  indeed ;  that 
is  too  mean  and  degrading  !  Never  will  I  do  it—never !  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  Never ! ' 

Pauline,  whose  strength  was  exhausted,  ceased  her  en- 
treaties. Silence  reigned.  Lazare  had  thrown  himself  on 
the  chair  again,  while  the  girl  paced  slowly  up  and  down 
the  big  room,  lingering  before  each  piece  of  furniture.  Those 
old  familiar  things,  the  table  which  she  had  worn  away  with 
the  pressure  of  her  elbows,  the  wardrobe  where  her  childish 
playthings  were  still  stowed  away,  all  the  old  souvenirs 
littered  about  the  room,  made  a  feeling  of  hope,  which  she 
strove  to  dismiss,  spring  up  in  her  heart— a  hope  whose  sweet- 
ness, in  spite  of  herself,  gradually  thrilled  her.  Suppose  he 
did  really  love  her  sufficiently  to  refuse  to  take  another !  But 
she  knew  too  well  the  weak  morrows  that  followed  his 
passionate  outbursts  of  sentiment.  Besides,  it  was  very  weak 
of  her  to  harbour  hope,  and  she  must  guard  against  allowing 
herself  to  yield  to  his  nerveless  vacillating  nature. 

'  You  must  think  it  all  over,'  she  said  in  conclusion,  as 
she  stopped  short  before  him.  '  I  won't  bother  you  any  more 
at  present.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  more  reasonable  in  the 
morning.' 

The  next  day,  however,  was  passed  in  painful  constraint. 
The  house  once  more  seemed  to  be  under  the  depressing 
influence  of  a  vague  bitter  sorrow.  Louise's  eyes  were  red, 
and  Lazare  avoided  her  and  spent  whole  hours  by  himself  in 
his  room.  But  again  the  days  went  on ;  the  constraint 
began  to  disappear,  and  laughter  and  whispering  once 
more  came  back.  Pauline  still  waited,  indulging  in  foolish 
hopes  even  against  her  own  convictions.  Backed  by  un- 
certainty, she  thought  that  she  had  never  before  really  known 
what  suffering  was.  But,  at  last,  as  she  was  going  down  to 
the  kitchen  one  evening  in  the  dusk  to  get  a  candle,  she 
found  Lazare  and  Louise  kissing  each  other  in  the  passage. 
Louise  made  her  escape  laughing ;  while  Lazare,  emboldened 
by  the  darkness,  caught  hold  of  Pauline  and  imprinted  two 
brotherly  kisses  on  her  cheeks. 

'  I  have  thought  it  over,'  he  murmured.  '  You  are  better 
and  wiser  than  she  is ;  and  I  still  love  you,  but  I  love  you  as 
I  loved  my  mother.' 

She  had  just  strength  to  say  : 

'  It  is  settled,  then.    I  am  very  glad.' 


246  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

She  felt  that  she  had  turned  so  pale,  and  her  face  was  so 
cold,  that  she  dared  not  go  into  the  kitchen  for  fear  she  should 
faint.  Without  waiting  to  get  a  candle,  she  went  upstairs 
again,  saying  that  she  had  forgotten  something.  When  she 
had  shut  herself  up  in  the  darkness,  she  thought  she  was 
going  to  die,  for  she  felt  suffocated,  and  could  not  shed  a 
single  tear.  What  had  she  done,  she  cried  to  herself,  that 
he  should  have  been  cruel  enough  to  make  her  torture  still 
greater  ?  Why  couldn't  he  have  accepted  her  sacrifice  on  the 
day  when  she  proposed  it  to  him,  when  she  had  possessed  all 
her  strength,  un weakened  by  any  false  hope  ?  Now  the 
sacrifice  had  become  a  double  one.  She  had  lost  him  a 
second  time,  and  all  the  more  painfully  since  she  had 
allowed  herself  to  hope  that  she  was  winning  him  back. 
Ah,  Heaven  1  She  would  be  brave  and  bear  it,  but  it  was 
wicked  to  make  her  task  such  torture. 

Everything  was  speedily  arranged.  Veronique,  quite 
aghast,  could  make  nothing  out  of  it.  She  thought  that 
things  had  got  turned  upside  down  since  her  mistress's  death. 
It  was,  however,  Chanteau  who  was  most  surprised  by  the 
news.  He,  who  usually  took  no  interest  in  anything  and  just 
nodded  his  head  in  approval  of  any  scheme  that  was  men- 
tioned to  him,  as  though  he  were  completely  absorbed  in 
the  selfish  enjoyment  of  the  calm  moments  which  he  stole 
from  his  tormenting  pain,  burst  into  tears  when  Pauline 
herself  announced  the  new  arrangement  to  him.  He  gazed 
at  her,  and  stammered  incoherent  protests  and  confessions. 
It  wasn't  his  fault:  he  had  wanted  to  do  very  differently 
long  ago,  both  about  the  money  and  about  the  marriage,  but, 
as  she  knew,  he  was  too  ill.  However,  the  girl  kissed  him, 
protesting  that  it  was  she  herself  who  was  making  Lazare 
marry  Louise  for  very  good  reasons.  At  first  he  could 
scarcely  believe  her,  and,  blinking  his  eyes  sadly,  he  asked 
her: 

'  Is  that  really  the  truth  ?    Really  ? ' 

Then,  when  he  saw  her  smile,  he  quickly  consoled  him- 
self and  grew  quite  gay.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  have 
things  settled,  for  the  matter  had  long  been  distressing  him, 
though  he  had  never  dared  to  open  his  mouth  about  it.  He 
kissed  Louise  on  the  cheeks,  and  in  the  evening,  over  the 
dessert,  he  sang  a  merry  song.  Just  as  he  was  going  to  bed, 
however,  he  was  troubled  by  a  last  disquieting  thought. 

'  You  will  stay  with  us,  eh  ?  '  he  asked  Pauline. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  247 

The  girl  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  blushing  at 
her  falsehood,  she  answered,  '  Oh  !  no  doubt.' 

A  whole  month  was  required  for  the  completion  of  the 
necessary  formalities.  Thibaudier,  Louise's  father,  had, 
however,  at  once  consented  to  the  proposal  of  Lazare,  who 
was  his  godson.  There  was  only  one  dispute  between  them, 
a  couple  of  days  before  the  wedding,  when  the  young  man 
roundly  refused  to  go  to  Paris  and  manage  an  Insurance 
Company,  in  which  the  banker  was  the  principal  shareholder. 
He  intended  remaining  for  a  year  or  two  longer  at  Bonne- 
ville and  writing  a  novel,  which  was  to  be  a  masterpiece, 
before  he  started  off  to  bring  Paris  to  his  feet.  At  this 
Thibaudier  just  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  in  a  friendly 
way  called  him  a  big  simpleton. 

It  was  arranged  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  at 
Caen.  During  the  previous  fortnight  there  were  continual 
comings  and  goings,  a  perfect  fever  of  journeyings.  Pauline 
went  about  with  Louise,  seeking  to  divert  her  thoughts 
with  all  the  bustle,  and  returning  home  quite  exhausted. 
As  Chanteau  was  not  able  to  leave  Bonneville,  she  had  to 
promise  to  attend  the  ceremony,  at  which  she  would  be  the 
only  representative  of  her  cousin's  family.  The  near  ap- 
proach of  the  day  filled  her  with  terror.  She  had  arranged 
that  she  would  not  spend  the  night  at  Caen,  for  she  thought 
she  would  suffer  less  if  she  returned  to  sleep  at  Bonneville. 
She  pretended  that  her  uncle's  health  made  her  very  uneasy, 
and  that  she  was  unwilling  to  remain  long  away  from  him. 
Chanteau  himself  vainly  pressed  her  to  spend  a  few  days  at 
Caen.  He  wasn't  ill  at  all,  he  urged.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
very  much  excited  by  the  idea  of  the  approaching  wedding 
and  the  thought  of  the  banquet  at  which  he  would  not  be 
present ;  and  he  was  craftily  planning  to  make  Veronique 
supply  him  with  some  forbidden  dish,  such  as  a  young 
truffled  partridge,  which  he  could  never  eat  without  the 
absolute  certainty  of  a  fresh  attack  of  gout.  However,  in 
spite  of  all  that  could  be  urged,  the  girl  declared  that  she 
would  return  home  in  the  evening.  She  thought  that  this 
course  would  allow  her  greater  facilities  for  packing  her 
trunk  the  next  morning  and  disappearing. 

A  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  and  midnight  had  just  struck 
as  Malivoire's  old  coach  brought  Pauline  back  to  Bonneville 
on  the  evening  of  the  wedding.  Wearing  a  blue  silk  gown, 
and  ill  protected  by  a  little  shawl,  she  was  pale  and  shivering 


248  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

though  her  hands  were  hot.  In  the  kitchen  she  found 
Ve"ronique  sitting  up  for  her  and  dozing  beside  the  table. 
The  tall  flame  of  the  candle  made  the  girl's  eyes  blink,  full 
as  they  still  were  of  the  darkness  of  the  journey,  during 
which  they  had  remained  wide  open  all  the  way  from 
Arromanches.  She  could  only  drag  a  few  incoherent  words 
from  the  drowsy  servant :  the  master  had  been  very  foolish, 
but  he  was  asleep  now,  and  nobody  had  called.  Then  Pauline 
took  a  candle  and  went  upstairs,  chilled  by  the  emptiness 
of  the  house,  heart- sick  amidst  all  the  gloom  and  silence 
which  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  shoulders. 

When  she  reached  the  second  floor  she  wished  to  take 
immediate  refuge  in  her  own  room,  but  an  irresistible 
impulse,  at  which  she  felt  surprised,  led  her  to  open  Lazare's 
door.  She  raised  her  candle  to  enable  her  to  see,  as  though 
she  fancied  the  room  was  full  of  smoke.  Nothing  was 
changed.  Every  piece  of  furniture  was  in  its  accustomed 
place,  but  she  felt  conscious  of  calamity,  annihilation ;  it  was 
a  vague  terror,  as  though  she  were  in  some  chamber  of 
death.  She  slowly  walked  up  to  the  table  and  looked  at  the 
inkstand,  the  pen,  and  an  unfinished  page  of  manuscript 
still  lying  there.  Then  she  went  away.  All  was  over,  and 
the  door  closed  on  the  echoing  emptiness  of  the  room. 

When  she  reached  her  own  chamber,  the  same  vague 
sensation  of  strangeness  that  she  had  felt  in  Lazare's  again 
affected  her.  Could  this  indeed  be  her  room,  with  its  wall- 
paper of  blue  roses  and  its  little  muslin-curtained  iron  bed  ? 
Was  it  really  here  that  she  had  lived  so  many  years  ?  Still 
keeping  her  candle  in  her  hand,  she,  who  was  usually  so 
courageous,  made  a  minute  inspection  of  the  apartment, 
pushed  the  curtains  aside,  looked  under  the  bed  and  behind 
the  furniture.  She  felt  overcome  by  a  strange  kind  of  stupor, 
which  kept  her  standing  in  front  of  the  different  things.  She 
could  not  have  believed  that  such  keen  anguish  could  ever 
have  possessed  her  beneath  that  ceiling,  whose  every  stain 
was  familiar  to  her ;  and  she  now  began  to  regret  that  she 
had  not  stayed  at  Caen.  For  she  felt  frightened  in  that  old 
house,  which  was  so  empty  and  yet  so  full  of  memories  of  the 
past,  and  so  cold,  too,  and  so  dark  that  stormy  night.  The 
thought  of  going  to  bed  was  intolerable  to  her.  She  sat 
down  without  even  taking  off  her  hat,  and  for  several  minutes 
remained  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  candle-flame, 
which  dazzled  them.  Suddenly,  however,  she  started  up  in 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  249 

astonishment.  What  was  she  doing  there,  with  her  head 
throbbing  wildly,  with  a  violence  that  quite  prevented  her 
from  thinking?  It  was  one  o'clock.  She  ought  to  be  in 
bed.  And  she  began  to  undress  with  slow,  feverish  hands. 

Her  orderly  habits  showed  themselves  even  in  this  crisis 
of  her  life.  She  carefully  put  away  her  hat,  and  glanced 
anxiously  at  her  boots  to  see  if  they  had  sustained  any 
damage.  She  had  folded  her  dress  and  laid  it  over  the  back 
of  a  chair,  when  her  glance  fell  upon  her  bosom.  Gradually 
a  flush  crimsoned  her  cheeks.  In  her  troubled  brain  arose 
the  thought  of  those  two  others  over  yonder.  Alas !  the 
harvest  of  love  was  not  for  her !  To  another  were  given  the 
embraces  of  that  husband  for  whose  coming  she  herself  had 
looked  forward  for  so  many  years !  Never  would  she  be  a 
wife  or  mother ;  the  years  would  come  and  go,  and  she  would 
age  in  utter  loneliness.  Then  wild  jealousy  came  upon  her. 
She  yearned  to  live,  to  live  to  the  full,  to  drain  the  joys  of 
life,  she  who  loved  life  so  dearly  !  She  was  more  beautiful 
than  that  scraggy,  fair-haired  girl ;  she  was  stronger  and 
healthier,  and  yet  her  cousin  had  not  chosen  her.  Never 
now  would  he  be  hers  ;  never,  as  in  the  past,  might  she  again 
wait  for  him,  expect  him.  She  was  tossed  aside  like  an  old 
rag.  It  was,  no  doubt,  her  own  doing ;  and  yet  how  awful 
was  the  thought  of  the  others  being  together  while  she  was 
all  alone,  shivering  with  fever  in  that  cold,  gloomy  house ! 

Suddenly  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed.  She  seized  the 
pillow  with  desperate  hands,  and  bit  it  with  her  teeth  to 
stifle  her  sobs.  Long  convulsive  shivers  shook  her  from  head 
to  heels.  It  was  in  vain  that  she  closed  her  eyelids,  seeking 
to  shut  out  all  sight ;  she  saw  just  the  same,  and  ever 
endured  torture.  Oh !  what  was  she  to  do  ?  Even  if  she 
were  to  tear  her  eyes  out  she  would  still  see — see  perhaps  for 
ever. 

The  minutes  glided  on,  and  she  was  only  conscious  of 
everlasting  torment.  A  paroxysm  of  fear  made  her  spring  to 
her  feet.  Some  one  must  be  in  the  room,  for  surely  she  had 
heard  the  sound  of  laughter.  But  she  found  that  it  was  only 
her  candle,  which,  having  nearly  burnt  out,  had  broken  the 
glass  socket.  Yet  if  anyone  really  had  seen  her !  That 
imaginary  laugh  still  coursed  through  her  wildly.  Then  at 
last  she  slipped  on  a  night-dress  and  hastily  buried  herself 
in  bed,  pulling  up  the  clothes  to  her  chin,  and  drawing  her 
shivering  body  as  closely  together  as  possible.  When  the 


250  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

candle  died  out,  she  lay  perfectly  still,  exhausted  and  over- 
come with  shame  for  her  wild  conduct. 

In  the  morning  Pauline  packed  her  trunk,  but  she  could 
not  summon  up  courage  to  tell  Chanteau  of  her  departure. 
In  the  evening,  however,  she  was  obliged  to  inform  him  of  it, 
for  Doctor  Cazenove  was  to  come  the  next  day  and  take  her  to 
his  relative's  house.  When  her  uncle  grasped  the  situation 
he  was  quite  overcome,  and  stretched  out  his  poor,  weak 
hands  with  a  wild  gesture  as  though  to  detain  her,  while 
in  broken,  stammering  sentences  he  besought  her  to  stay  with 
him.  She  could  surely  never  really  think  of  such  a  thing,  he 
cried ;  she  could  not  possibly  desert  him ;  it  would  be  a  murder, 
for  it  would  certainly  kill  him.  Then,  seeing  her  gently 
resolute  and  divining  her  reasons,  he  confessed  his  wrong-doing 
of  the  previous  day  in  eating  a  partridge.  He  already  ex- 
perienced sharp  burning  pains  in  his  joints.  It  was  always 
the  same  old  story.  He  had  yielded  once  more  in  the  struggle. 
He  knew  what  the  consequences  would  be  if  he  ate,  but  he 
ate  all  the  same,in  a  state  of  mingled  pleasure  and  terror,  quite 
certain  that  agony  would  ensue.  Surely,  however,  Pauline 
would  never  desert  him  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  attacks. 

And  indeed  it  happened  that  about  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  Veronique  came  upstairs  to  inform  Mademoiselle 
that  she  could  hear  her  master  bellowing  in  his  bedroom. 
The  woman  was  in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  went  growling  about 
the  house  that  if  Mademoiselle  were  going  she  would  certainly 
be  off  as  well,  as  she  had  grown  quite  tired  of  looking  after 
such  an  unreasonable  old  man. 

Thus  Pauline  was  once  more  obliged  to  take  up  her 
position  by  her  uncle's  bedside ;  and  when  the  Doctor  arrived 
to  take  her  away  with  him,  she  showed  him  the  sick  man, 
who  triumphed,  bellowing  his  loudest,  and  crying  to  her  to 
leave  him,  if  she  could  find  it  in  her  heart  to  do  so.  Every- 
thing had  to  be  postponed. 

Every  day  the  young  girl  trembled  at  the  thought  of  see- 
ing Lazare  and  Louise  come  back.  Their  new  room,  the 
former  guest-chamber,  had  been  specially  fitted  up,and  had  been 
waiting  ready  for  them  ever  since  their  marriage.  They  were 
lingering  on  at  Caen,  however,  and  Lazare  wrote  to  say  that  he 
was  making  notes  on  the  financial  world  before  returning  to 
Bonneville  and  shutting  himself  up  there  to  start  on  a  great 
novel,  in  which  he  should  reveal  the  truth  about  company 
promoters  and  speculators.  At  last  he  arrived  one  morning 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  251 

without  his  wife,  and  unconcernedly  announced  that  he 
was  going  to  settle  with  her  in  Paris.  His  father-in-law, 
he  said,  had  prevailed  upon  him  to  accept  that  post  in 
the  Insurance  Company,  on  the  ground  that  he  would  thus 
have  a  good  opportunity  for  making  his  notes  from  actual 
observation.  Later  on,  he  added,  he  might  perhaps  come 
back  and  devote  himself  to  literature. 

When  Lazare  had  filled  a  couple  of  trunks  with  the  various 
articles  he  required,  and  Malivoire's  coach  had  come  to  fetch 
him  and  his  luggage,  Pauline  went  back  into  the  house, 
feeling  quite  dazed  and  destitute  of  her  former  energy. 
Chanteau,  still  in  great  pain,  turned  to  her  and  exclaimed  : 

'  You  will  stop  now,  I  hope  !     Stay  and  see  me  buried ! ' 

She  was  unwilling  to  make  an  immediate  reply.  Her 
trunk  was  still  packed  in  her  bedroom.  She  sat  gazing  at  it 
for  hours.  Since  the  others  were  going  to  Paris,  it  would  be 
wrong  of  her,  she  thought,  to  desert  her  uncle.  She  had  but 
little  confidence  in  her  cousin's  resolutions,  but,  at  any  rate, 
if  he  and  his  wife  should  come  back,  she  would  then  be  free 
to  take  her  departure.  And  when  Cazenove  angrily  told  her 
that  she  was  throwing  away  a  splendid  position  for  the  sake 
of  ruining  her  life  amongst  people  who  had  lived  upon  her 
ever  since  her  childhood,  she  virtually  made  up  her  mind. 

'  Be  off  with  you ! '  Chanteau  now  repeated.  '  If  you  are 
to  gain  so  much  money  and  become  so  happy  that  way,  I 
won't  keep  you  here  bothering  about  an  old  cripple  like  me, 
Be  off  with  you  ! ' 

One  morning,  however,  she  replied  to  him  : 

1  No,  uncle,  I  am  going  to  stay  with  you.' 

The  Doctor,  who  was  present,  went  off,  raising  his  arms  to 
heaven. 

'  Ah  !  there  is  no  doing  anything  with  that  child  !  And 
what  a  hornets'  nest  she  has  got  into  !  She  will  never  get 
free  of  it — never  1 ' 

IX 

ONCE  more  did  the  days  glide  by  in  the  house  at  Bonneville. 
After  a  very  cold  winter  there  had  come  a  rainy  spring,  and 
the  sea,  beaten  by  the  downpour,  looked  like  a  huge  lake  of 
mud.  Then  the  tardy  summer  had  lasted  into  the  middle  of 
autumn,  with  heavy,  oppressive  suns,  beneath  whose  over- 
whelming heat  the  blue  immensity  slumbered.  And  then  the 


winter  came  round  again,  and  another  spring,  and  yet  another 
summer,  slipping  away  minute  by  minute,  ever  at  the  same 
speed,  as  the  hours  pursued  their  rhythmical  march. 

Pauline,  as  if  her  heart  were  regulated  by  that  clock-like 
motion,  had  recovered  all  her  old  calmness.  The  placid  same- 
ness of  her  days,  which  were  passed  in  the  same  unvarying 
occupations,  lulled  the  keenness  of  her  sorrow.  She  came 
downstairs  in  the  morning  and  kissed  her  uncle,  said  much 
the  same  things  to  the  servant  as  she  had  said  the  day  before, 
sat  down  twice  at  table,  spent  the  afternoon  in  sewing,  and 
then,  early  in  the  evening,  went  to  bed.  The  next  day  the 
same  programme  was  gone  through,  without  ever  any  unex 
pected  incident  breaking  the  monotony  of  her  life.  Chanteau, 
who  was  becoming  more  and  more  disfigured  by  gout,  which 
had  puffed  out  his  legs  and  warped  and  deformed  his  hands, 
sat  silent,  when  he  was  not  bellowing,  quite  absorbed  in  the 
delight  of  being  free  from  pain.  Ve"ronique,  who  seemed 
almost  to  have  lost  her  tongue,  had  fallen  into  a  state  of 
gloomy  surliness.  Only  the  Saturday  dinners  brought  any 
relief.  Cazenove  and  Abbe"  Horteur  dined  there  with  great 
regularity,  and  chatter  was  heard  till  ten  o'clock  or  so,  when 
the  priest's  wooden  shoes  clattered  away  over  the  stones  of 
the  yard,  and  the  Doctor's  gig  started  off  at  the  slow  trot  of 
the  old  horse.  Pauline's  gaiety — that  gaiety  which  she  had 
so  bravely  maintained  during  all  her  troubles — had  assumed 
a  subdued  character.  Her  ringing  laughter  no  longer  echoed 
through  the  rooms  and  the  staircase,  though  she  still  remained 
all  kindliness  and  activity,  and  every  morning  displayed  fresh 
courage  and  zest  for  life.  By  the  end  of  a  year  her  heart 
had  fallen  asleep,  and  she  had  come  to  believe  that  the  days 
would  now  flow  on  in  that  peaceful  monotony,  without  any- 
thing ever  happening  to  awake  her  slumbering  sorrow. 

For  some  time  after  Lazare's  departure  every  letter  from 
him  had  troubled  the  girl,  though  it  was  only  for  his  letters  that 
she  lived,  looking  out  for  them  with  impatience,  reading  them 
over  and  over  again,  and  even  adding  to  them  something  from 
her  own  imagination  beyond  what  they  actually  contained. 
For  three  months  Lazare  had  written  very  regularly,  sending, 
every  fortnight,  a  very  long  letter,  full  of  detail  and  breathing 
the  liveliest  hopes.  Once  more  he  was  wildly  enthusiastic. 
He  had  launched  out  into  business  and  was  dreaming  of  a 
colossal  fortune  in  the  immediate  future.  According  to  his 
account,  the  Insurance  Company  could  not  fail  to  return 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  253 

enormous  profits.  He  was  not,  however,  confining  himself  to 
that  venture,  but  was  engaging  in  all  kinds  of  speculations. 
He  appeared  to  have  become  quite  charmed  with  the  financial 
and  mercantile  world,  which  he  now  reproached  himself  for 
having  judged  so  absurdly.  All  his  literary  schemes  seemed 
quite  abandoned.  Then,  too,  he  was  never  tired  of  writing 
about  his  domestic  joys,  and  related  all  sorts  of  things  about 
his  wife — the  kisses  he  had  given  her,  and  the  life  they  led 
together — setting  forth  at  length  all  his  happiness  by  way  of 
expressing  his  gratitude  to  her,  whom  he  called  his  '  dear 
sister.'  It  was  those  details,  those  familiar  passages,  which 
made  Pauline's  fingers  tremble  feverishly.  The  odour  of  love 
which  the  paper  diffused,  the  perfume  of  heliotrope,  Louise's 
favourite  scent,  which  clung  to  it,  seemed  to  stupefy  her.  But 
the  letters  gradually  became  fewer  and  shorter.  Lazare 
ceased  to  write  about  business,  and  in  other  respects  con- 
fined himself  to  sending  his  wife's  love  to  Pauline.  He 
offered  no  explanations,  but  simply  ceased  to  tell  her  every- 
thing. Was  he  discontented  with  his  position  and  already 
sick  of  finance  ?  Was  his  domestic  happiness  compromised 
by  misunderstandings?  Pauline  was  afraid  it  must  be  so, 
and  she  was  saddened  by  the  evidence  of  her  cousin's  weari- 
ness, which  she  thought  she  could  detect  in  certain  passages 
that  seemed  to  have  been  reluctantly  written.  About  the  end 
of  April,  after  a  six  weeks'  silence,  she  received  a  short  note 
of  four  lines,  in  which  her  cousin  told  her  that  Louise  was 
enceinte.  Then  silence  fell  again,  and  she  had  no  further 
news. 

May  and  June  passed  away.  A  heavy  tide  swept  away  one 
of  the  stockades,  an  incident  which  for  a  long  time  afforded 
subject  for  talk.  All  the  Bonneville  folk  jeered  and  grinned, 
and  the  fishermen  stole  the  broken  timbers.  Then  came 
another  scandalous  affair.  The  Gonin  girl,  young  as  she 
was,  had  a  baby.  And  afterwards  all  the  old  monotony 
returned,  and  the  village  vegetated  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs  as  lifelessly  as  a  tract  of  seaweed.  In  July  it  became 
necessary  to  repair  the  terrace-wall  and  one  of  the  gable  ends 
of  the  house.  As  soon  as  the  workmen  began  to  remove  the 
first  stones,  the  rest  threatened  to  fall,  and  they  were  kept  at 
work  for  an  entire  month,  an  expense  of  nearly  ten  thousand 
francs  being  incurred. 

It  was  still  Pauline  who  had  to  find  the  money.  Thus 
another  big  hole  was  made  in  her  little  hoard  in  the  chest  of 


254  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

drawers,  her  little  fortune  being  reduced  to  about  forty 
thousand  francs.  She  made  the  family's  few  hundred  franca 
a  month  go  as  far  as  possible  by  economical  housekeeping, 
but  she  was  obliged  to  sell  some  of  her  own  stock,  in  order  to 
avoid  encroaching  upon  her  uncle's  capital.  The  latter  told 
his  niece,  as  his  wife  had  done  before,  that  it  would  all  be  paid 
back  to  her  some  day.  The  girl  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
part  with  all  she  had,  for  the  gradual  crumbling  away  of  her 
fortune  had  destroyed  all  tendency  to  cupidity  in  her,  and  her 
only  effort  now  was  to  keep  a  sufficient  sum  in  hand  for  her 
charities.  The  thought  that  she  might  possibly  be  compelled 
to  discontinue  her  Saturday  distributions  greatly  distressed 
her,  for  they  constituted  her  chief  pleasure  of  the  week.  Since 
the  previous  winter  she  had  begun  to  knit  stockings,  and  all 
the  young  urchins  in  the  neighbourhood  now  went  about  with 
warm  feet. 

One  morning  towards  the  end  of  July,  as  V^ronique  was 
sweeping  up  the  rubbish  left  by  the  workmen,  Pauline  received 
a  letter  which  quite  upset  her.  It  was  written  from  Caen, 
and  contained  only  a  few  words.  In  it  Lazare  informed  her 
that  he  should  arrive  at  Bonneville  on  the  evening  of  the  next 
day,  but  gave  no  explanation  of  his  coming.  She  ran  off  to 
tell  the  news  to  her  uncle.  They  both  looked  at  each  other. 
Chanteau's  eyes  expressed  the  fear  that  his  niece  would  leave 
him  should  Lazare  and  his  wife  contemplate  a  long  stay  in 
the  house.  He  dare  not  question  her  on  the  subject,  for  he 
could  read  in  her  face  her  firm  resolution  to  go.  In  the  after- 
noon she  even  went  upstairs  to  look  over  her  clothes  ;  still,  she 
did  not  wish  to  have  the  air  of  taking  flight. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock,  and  lovely  weather,  when  Lazare 
stepped  out  of  a  trap  at  the  door  of  the  yard.  Pauline  hastened 
to  meet  him,  but,  before  even  kissing  him,  she  stopped  short 
in  astonishment. 

'  What  I    Have  you  come  alone  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  he  replied  quietly. 

And  then  he  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

'  But  where  is  Louise  ? ' 

'At  Clermont,  with  her  sister-in-law.  The  doctor  has 
recommended  her  to  go  to  a  mountainous  neighbourhood. 
Her  state  of  health  has  made  her  weak  and  languid.' 

As  he  spoke  he  walked  on  to  the  house,  casting  long 
glances  about  the  yard.  He  scrutinised  his  cousin,  too,  and 
his  lips  quivered  with  an  emotion  which  he  struggled  to 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  255 

restrain.    He  showed  great  surprise  as  a  dog  rushed  out  of 
the  kitchen  and  barked  round  his  legs. 

1  What  dog  is  that  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Oh  1  that's  Loulou,'  Pauline  replied.  '  He  doesn't  know  you 
yet,  you  see.  Down !  Loulou  1  You  mustn't  bite  your  master.1 

The  dog  went  on  growling. 

'He  is  dreadfully  ugly,  my  dear.  Where  did  you  pick  up 
such  a  fright  ?  ' 

The  dog  was  indeed  a  wretched  mongrel,  under-sized  and 
mangy.  And  he  had,  too,  an  abominable  temper,  and  was 
perpetually  snarling,  and  melancholy  like  an  outcast. 

'  Oh !  when  he  was  given  me  I  was  told  that  he  would 
grow  up  into  a  huge,  magnificent  animal,  but  he  has  always 
kept  like  that.  It  is  the  fifth  one  that  we  have  tried  to  rear. 
All  the  others  have  died,  and  this  ia  the  only  one  that  has 
managed  to  go  on  living.' 

Loulou  by  this  time  had  sulkily  made  up  his  mind  to  lie 
down  in  the  sun,  and  turned  his  back  upon  Pauline  and  her 
cousin.  Then  Lazare  thought  of  the  old  days  and  of  the  dog 
that  was  dead  and  of  the  new  and  ugly  one  that  now  occupied 
his  place.  He  glanced  round  the  yard  once  more. 

'  My  poor  old  Matthew ! '  he  murmured  very  softly. 

On  the  steps  of  the  house  Ve"ronique  received  him  with  a 
nod  of  her  head,  without  ceasing  to  pare  carrots.  Then  he 
walked  straight  on  to  the  dining-room,  where  his  father, 
excited  by  the  sound  of  voices,  was  anxiously  waiting. 
Pauline  called  from  the  threshold : 

'You  know  he  haa  come  by  himself?  Louise  is  at 
Clermont.' 

Chanteau,  whose  anxious  eyes  brightened,  began  to  ques 
tion  his  son  even  before  he  had  kissed  him. 

'  Are  you  expecting  her  to  follow  you  ?  When  will  she 
join  you  here  ? ' 

'  Oh  no  !  She's  not  coming  here  at  all,'  Lazare  replied. 
'  I'm  going  to  join  her  at  her  sister-in-law's  before  I  return  to 
Paris.  I  shall  stay  a  fortnight  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  be  off.' 

Chanteau's  eyes  expressed  his  extreme  satisfaction  at  what 
he  heard,  and  when  at  last  Lazare  embraced  him  he  returned 
the  salute  with  two  hearty  kisses.  However,  he  considered 
that  it  behoved  him  to  express  some  regret. 

'  It  is  a  great  pity  that  your  wife  could  not  come.  We  should 
have  been  delighted  to  have  her  here.  However,  I  hope  we 
shall  see  her  some  other  time.  You  must  certainly  bring  her.' 


256  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

Pauline  kept  silent,  and  concealed  her  feeling  of  uneasiness 
beneath  an  affectionate  smile  of  welcome.  For  the  second 
time  were  her  plans  being  altered ;  she  would  not  have  to  go 
away.  She  scarcely  knew  whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry,  so 
entirely  had  she  now  become  the  property  of  others.  Whatever 
pleasure  she  felt  in  seeing  Lazare  was  tinged  with  sadness 
as  she  noticed  his  aged  appearance.  His  eyes  were  dull,  and 
a  bitter  expression  rested  on  his  lips.  The  lines  across  his 
brow  and  cheeks  had  been  there  before,  but  they  were 
deeper  wrinkles  now,  and  she  guessed  that  his  ennui  and 
terror  had  increased.  The  young  man  scrutinized  his  cousin 
with  equal  care.  She  appeared  to  him  to  have  developed,  to 
have  gained  additional  beauty  and  vigour,  and  with  a  smile  he 
muttered : 

'  Well,  you  certainly  don't  seem  to  have  been  any  the 
worse  for  my  absence.  You  are,  all  of  you,  looking  quite 
plump.  Father  is  growing  young  again,  and  Pauline  is 
superb.  And,  really,  it  is  very  funny,  but  the  house  certainly 
seems  bigger  than  it  used  to  be.' 

He  glanced  round  the  dining-room,  as  he  had  previously 
done  round  the  yard,  with  an  appearance  of  surprise  and 
emotion.  His  eyes  at  last  rested  upon  Minouche,  who  lay 
upon  the  table,  with  her  feet  tucked  under  her,  in  such  a 
state  of  restful  beatitude  that  she  had  not  moved. 

'  Even  Minouche  doesn't  seem  to  have  grown  any  older,' 
the  young  man  resumed.  '  Well,  you  ungrateful  animal,  you 
might  rouse  yourself  to  welcome  me  1 ' 

He  stroked  her  as  he  spoke,  and  she  began  to  purr,  but 
still  without  moving. 

'  Oh  !  Minouche  is  only  interested  in  herself,'  Pauline  said 
merrily.  '  The  day  before  yesterday  five  more  of  her  kittens 
were  drowned,  and,  you  see,  she  doesn't  seem  to  mind  it 
at  all.' 

The  dinner  was  hastened,  as  Lazare  had  made  an  early 
breakfast.  In  spite  of  all  the  girl's  attempts,  the  evening 
proved  a  gloomy  one.  The  efforts  they  made  to  avoid  certain 
subjects  interfered  with  the  conversation,  and  there  were 
awkward  intervals  of  silence.  Pauline  and  Chanteau  re- 
frained from  questioning  Lazare,  as  they  saw  that  it  em- 
barrassed him  to  reply ;  they  made  no  attempt  to  ascertain 
either  how  his  business  at  Paris  was  getting  on,  or  how  it 
came  about  that  his  letter  to  them  had  been  written  from 
Caen.  With  a  vague  gesture  he  put  aside  all  direct  questions, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  257 

as  though  he  meant  to  reply  to  them  later  on.  When  the  tea 
was  brought  into  the  room,  a  great  sigh  of  satisfaction  escaped 
him.  How  happy  and  peaceful  they  must  all  be  here,  said  he, 
and  what  an  amount  of  work  one  could  get  through  when  all 
was  so  quiet !  He  dropped  a  word  or  two  about  a  drama  in 
verse  upon  which  he  had  been  engaged  for  the  last  six 
months.  His  cousin  felt  amazed  when  he  added  that  he 
intended  finishing  it  at  Bonneville.  Twelve  days  would  be 
sufficient,  said  he. 

At  ten  o'clock  Veronique  entered  to  say  that  Monsieur 
Lazare's  room  was  ready.  But  when  they  had  reached  the 
first  floor,  and  she  wanted  to  instal  him  in  the  former  guest- 
chamber,  which  had  been  subsequently  fitted  up  for  the  occu- 
pation of  himself  and  his  wife,  he  flew  into  a  tantrum. 

'  You're  quite  mistaken,'  said  he,  '  if  you  suppose  that  I 
am  going  to  sleep  there !  I'm  going  up  to  the  top  of  the 
house  to  my  old  iron  bedstead.' 

Veronique  began  to  grumble  and  growl.  Why  couldn't 
he  sleep  there  ?  The  bed  had  been  got  ready  for  him,  and, 
surely,  he  wasn't  going  to  give  her  the  trouble  of  preparing 
another. 

'  Very  well,'  he  said,  '  I  will  sleep  in  an  easy-chair.' 

While  Veronique  angrily  tore  off  the  sheets  and  carried 
them  up  to  the  top  floor,  Pauline  experienced  a  sudden 
delight  which  impelled  her  to  throw  her  arms  round  her 
cousin's  neck,  in  an  outburst  of  the  old  chummish  feeling  of 
their  youth,  as  she  wished  him  good-night.  He  was  occupying 
his  big  room  once  more,  and  he  was  so  close  to  her  that  for 
a  long  time  she  could  hear  him  pacing  about,  as  though 
brooding  over  the  recollections  which  were  keeping  her 
awake  also. 

It  was  only  the  next  morning  that  Lazare  began  to  take 
Pauline  into  his  confidence.  Even  then  he  made  no  clear 
statement ;  she  had  to  guess  what  she  could  from  a  few 
short  sentences  which  he  let  slip  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion. By-and-by  she  took  courage  and  questioned  him  with 
an  expression  of  affectionate  concern.  Were  he  and  Louise 
still  getting  on  as  happily  as  ever  ?  He  replied  in  the 
affirmative,  but  complained  about  certain  little  domestic 
disagreements  and  other  trifling  matters  which  had  led  to 
quarrels.  Without  having  come  to  a  definite  rupture,  they 
were  suffering  from  the  perpetual  jarring  of  two  highly- 
strung  temperaments,  which  were  incapable  of  equilibrium 

3 


258  THE  JO\   OF  LIFE 

either  in  joy  or  sorrow.  There  existed  between  them  a  sort 
of  unconfessed  bitterness,  as  though  they  were  surprised  and 
angry  at  having  mistaken  each  other,  at  having  discovered 
each  other's  real  feelings  so  soon,  after  all  the  passionate 
love  of  the  first  days.  For  a  moment  Pauline  thought  she 
could  discover  that  it  was  pecuniary  troubles  that  had 
embittered  them ;  but  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  for  their 
income  of  ten  thousand  francs  a  year  had  remained  almost 
undiminished.  Lazare  had  simply  become  disgusted  with 
business,  just  as  he  had  previously  grown  disgusted  with 
music  and  medicine  and  industrial  enterprise ;  and  on  this 
subject  he  launched  out  in  strong  language.  Never,  he  said, 
never  had  he  come  across  such  a  stupid,  rotten  sphere  as 
that  of  the  financial  world.  He  would  prefer  anything,  the 
dulness  of  country  life  and  the  mediocrity  of  small  means,  to 
perpetual  worries  about  money,  the  brain-softening  tangle  of 
figures.  He  had  just  retired  from  the  Insurance  Company, 
he  said,  and  he  was  going  to  try  what  he  could  do  as  a  play 
writer  when  he  returned  to  Paris  in  the  following  winter. 
His  drama  would  avenge  him  ;  he  would  portray  money  in  it 
as  a  festering  sore  eating  away  modern  society. 

Pauline  did  not  distress  herself  much  about  this  new 
failure,  which  she  had  already  inferred  from  Lazare's  embar- 
rassed expressions  in  his  last  letters.  What  grieved  her  most 
was  the  gradually  increasing  misunderstanding  between  her 
cousin  and  his  wife.  She  strove  to  find  out  the  real  cause  of 
it,  how  it  happened  that  those  young  people  of  ample  means 
and  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  happy  had  so  quickly 
reached  discomfort.  She  returned  to  the  subject  again,  and 
only  ceased  to  question  her  cousin  about  it  when  she  saw  the 
embarrassment  she  was  causing  him.  He  stammered  and 
grew  pale,  and  turned  his  face  away  from  her  as  she  inter- 
rogated him.  She  well  knew  that  expression  of  shame  and 
fear,  that  terror  of  the  idea  of  death,  which  he  had  formerly 
struggled  to  conceal  as  though  it  were  some  disgraceful 
disease ;  but  could  it  be  possible,  she  asked  herself,  that  the 
cold  shadow  of  nothingness  had  already  fallen  between  the 
young  couple  so  soon  after  their  nuptials  ?  For  several  days 
she  lingered  in  a  state  of  doubt,  and  then,  without  any 
further  confession  from  him  on  the  subject,  she  one  evening 
read  the  truth  in  his  eyes  as  he  rushed  downstairs  from  his 
room  in  the  dark,  as  though  he  were  pursued  by  ghosts. 

In    Paris,  amidst  his  love-fever,  Lazare  had    at    first 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  259 

forgotten  all  about  death.  He  had  found  a  refuge  in 
Louise's  embraces.  But  satiety  came  at  last,  and  then  in 
that  wife  of  his,  for  whom  life  centred  in  caressing  endear- 
ments, he  found  no  sustaining,  no  courage-prompting  in- 
fluence whatever.  Passion  was  fugitive  and  deceitful — power- 
less, he  found,  to  give  a  semblance  of  happiness  to  life.  One 
night  he  awoke  with  a  start,  chilled  by  an  icy  breath  that 
made  his  hair  stand  on  end.  He  shivered  and  wailed  out 
his  cry  of  bitter  anguish :  •  0  God !  God  I  oh !  to  have  to 
die ! '  Louise  was  sleeping  by  his  side.  It  was  death  that 
he  had  found  again  at  the  end  of  their  kisses. 

Other  nights  followed,  and  all  his  old  torture  came  on  him 
again.  It  seized  him  suddenly  as  he  lay  sleepless  in  bed,  without 
ability  on  his  part  to  foresee  or  prevent  it.  All  at  once,  while 
he  was  lying  there  perfectly  calm,  a  fearful  shudder  would  con- 
vulse him ;  whereas,  on  the  other  hand,  when  he  was  irritable 
and  weary,  he  perhaps  escaped  altogether.  It  was  more  than 
the  mere  shock  of  earlier  times  that  he  experienced  now  ;  his 
nervous  excitement  increased,  and  his  whole  being  was 
shaken  by  each  fresh  attack.  He  could  not  sleep  without  a 
night-light,  for  the  darkness  increased  his  anxiety,  in  spite  oi 
his  constant  fear  that  his  wife  might  discover  his  secret 
suffering.  This  very  fear,  indeed,  increased  his  distress  and 
aggravated  the  effects  of  his  attacks ;  for  in  the  old  days, 
when  he  lay  alone,  he  had  been  able  to  vent  his  dread,  but 
now  the  presence  of  another  at  his  side  was  a  source  of 
additional  disquietude.  When  he  started  in  terror  from  his 
pillow,  his  eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  he  instinctively  glanced 
at  her,  fearing  he  might  find  her  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed 
upon  his  own.  But  she  never  moved,  and  by  the  glimmer 
of  the  night-light  he  could  watch  her  quiet  slumber,  her 
placid  face,  thick  lips,  and  little,  blue-veined  eyelids.  And 
as  she  never  awoke,  he  at  last  grew  less  disturbed  on  her 
account,  until  one  night  what  he  had  so  long  feared  really 
happened,  and  he  saw  her  staring  at  him.  But  she  said  not 
a  word  when  she  saw  him  all  pale  and  trembling.  She,  like 
himself,  must  have  been  thrilled  by  the  horror  of  death,  for 
she  seemed  to  understand  what  was  passing  in  his  mind, 
and  threw  herself  against  him  like  a  frightened  woman 
seeking  protection.  Then,  still  desiring  to  deceive  each 
other,  they  pretended  that  they  had  heard  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps, and  got  out  of  bed  to  look  under  the  furniture  and 
behind  the  curtains. 

•  I 


26o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Thenceforward  they  were  both  haunted  with  nervous  fear. 
Never  a  word  of  confession  escaped  the  lips  of  either.  They 
felt  that  it  was  a  shameful  secret  of  which  they  must  not 
speak  ;  but  as  they  lay  in  bed,  with  their  eyes  staring  widely 
into  space,  they  knew  quite  well  what  each  was  thinking 
of.  Louise  had  become  as  nervous  as  Lazare ;  they  must 
have  infected  each  other  with  this  dread,  even  as  two  lovers 
are  sometimes  carried  off  by  the  same  fever.  If  he  awoke, 
while  she  continued  to  sleep,  he  grew  alarmed  at  her  very 
slumber.  Was  she  still  breathing  ?  He  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  any  respiration.  Perhaps  she  had  suddenly  died  ! 
He  would  then  peer  into  her  face  for  a  moment  and  touch 
her  hands  ;  but,  even  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  she 
was  alive  and  well,  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  again.  The 
thought  that  she  would  certainly  die  some  day  plunged  him 
into  a  mournful  reverie.  Which  of  them  would  go  first,  he 
or  she  ?  Then  his  mind  dwelt  at  length  on  the  alternative 
suppositions  ;  and  scenes  of  death,  with  the  last  torturing 
throes,  the  hideous  shrouding  and  laying-out,  the  final  heart- 
breaking separation,  presented  themselves  to  hia  mind.  That 
thought  of  never  seeing  each  other  again,  when  they  had  lived 
together  thus  as  man  and  wife,  drove  him  to  distraction,  filled 
him  with  revolt ;  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  such  horror. 
His  very  fear  made  him  wish  that  he  himself  might  be  the  first 
to  go.  Then  his  heart  ached  with  bitter  grief  for  Louise,  as 
he  pictured  her  as  a  widow,  still  carrying  on  the  old  routine 
of  life,  doing  this  and  that,  when  he  should  no  longer  be  there. 
Sometimes,  to  free  himself  from  those  haunting  thoughts, 
he  would  gently  pass  his  arms  about  her  without  awaking 
her  ;  but  this  he  could  not  long  endure,  for  he  became  still 
more  terrified  as  he  felt  the  pulsations  of  her  life  within  his 
embrace.  If  he  rested  his  head  upon  her  breast  and  listened 
to  her  heart,  he  could  not  hear  it  beating  without  alarm, 
without  feeling  that  all  action  might  suddenly  cease.  And 
even  love  was  powerless  to  drive  away  that  great  dread  which 
still  hovered  around  their  curtains  after  every  transport. 

About  this  time  Lazare  began  to  grow  weary  of  business. 
He  fell  back  into  his  old  state,  and  spent  whole  days  in  idle- 
ness, excusing  himself  on  the  ground  of  the  contempt  and 
dislike  he  felt  for  money-grubbing.  The  real  truth  was 
that  constant  brooding  over  the  thought  of  death  was  daily 
depriving  him  of  the  desire,  the  strength  to  live.  He  came 
back  to  his  old  question,  '  What  was  the  good  of  it  all  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  261 

Since  it  would  all  end  in  complete  extinction  sooner  or  later, 
perhaps  to-morrow,  or  even  to-day,  or  a  single  hour  hence, 
what  was  the  use  of  troubling  and  exciting  one's  self  and 
bothering  about  one  thing  more  than  another  ?  It  was  all 
quite  purposeless.  His  existence  itself  had  become  a  slow, 
lingering  death,  continuing  day  after  day,  and  he  strained  his 
ears  to  listen  to  the  sounds  of  its  progress,  even  as  he  had 
done  before  in  earlier  times,  and  thought  that  he  could  detect 
the  mechanism  of  his  life  quickly  running  down.  His  heart, 
he  fancied,  no  longer  beat  so  strongly  as  before,  the  action 
of  every  other  organ  was  becoming  feebler,  and  all  would 
doubtless  soon  come  to  a  dead-stop.  He  noted  with  a 
shudder  that  gradual  diminution  of  vitality  which  growing 
age  was  bringing  in  its  train.  His  very  frame  was  perishing ; 
its  component  parts  were  constantly  disappearing.  His  hair 
was  falling  off,  he  had  lost  several  teeth,  and  he  could  feel 
his  muscles  and  sinews  shrinking  away,  as  though  they  were 
already  returning  to  dust.  The  approach  of  his  fortieth  year 
filled  him  with  gloomy  melancholy  ;  old  age  would  soon  be 
upon  him  now  and  make  a  speedy  end  of  him.  He  had 
already  begun  to  believe  that  his  system  was  quite  deranged, 
and  that  some  vital  part  would  very  soon  give  way.  Thus 
his  days  were  spent  in  a  morbid  expectation  of  some 
catastrophe.  He  took  anxious  note  of  those  who  died  around 
him,  and  every  time  he  heard  of  the  death  of  an  acquaint- 
ance he  received  a  fresh  shock.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
such  an  one  was  really  dead  ?  Why,  he  was  three  years 
younger  than  himself  and  had  seemed  likely  to  last  a  hundred 
years !  And  then  that  other  man  he  knew  so  well,  had  he, 
too,  really  gone  ?  A  man  who  was  so  careful  of  himself, 
and  who  even  weighed  the  very  food  he  ate  1  For  a  couple 
of  days  after  occurrences  like  these  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else,  but  remained  stupefied  by  what  had  happened  ;  feeling 
his  pulse,  carefully  observing  all  his  own  symptoms,  and 
then  falling  foul  of  the  poor  fellows  who  had  gone.  He  felt 
a  craving  to  reassure  himself,  and  accused  the  departed  of 
having  died  from  their  own  fault.  One  had  been  guilty  of 
inexcusable  imprudence,  while  another  had  succumbed  to  so 
rare  a  disease  that  the  doctors  did  not  even  know  its  name. 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  tried  to  banish  the  importunate 
spectre  ;  he  never  ceased  to  hear  within  himself  the  grating 
of  the  wheels  which  he  fancied  had  so  nearly  run  down ; 
he  felt  that  he  was  helplessly  descending  the  slope  of  years, 


262  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

and  the  thought  of  the  deep,  black  pit  that  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  it  threw  him  into  an  icy  perspiration  and  made  his  hair 
stand  on  end  with  horror. 

When  Lazare  ceased  going  to  his  office,  quarrels  broke 
out  at  home.  He  manifested  excessive  irritability,  which 
flared  up  at  the  slightest  opposition.  His  increasing  mental 
disorder,  which  he  tried  so  carefully  to  conceal,  revealed  itself 
in  angry  snappishness,  fits  of  moody  sulking,  and  wild,  mad 
actions.  At  one  time  he  was  so  possessed  by  the  fear  of  fire 
that  he  removed  from  a  third-floor  flat  to  one  on  the  ground 
floor,  in  order  that  he  might  more  easily  escape  whenever 
the  house  should  burn.  A  perpetual  anticipation  of  coming 
evil  completely  poisoned  the  present,  and  prevented  him  from 
deriving  any  enjoyment  from  it.  Every  time  a  door  was 
opened  rather  noisily  he  started  up  in  fear ;  and  his  heart 
throbbed  violently  whenever  a  letter  was  put  into  his  hand. 
He  suspected  everybody.  His  money  was  hidden  in  small 
sums  in  all  sorts  of  places,  and  he  kept  his  simplest  plans 
and  intentions  secret.  He  felt  embittered,  too,  against  the 
world,  thinking  that  he  was  misunderstood  and  underrated, 
and  that  all  his  successive  failures  were  the  result  of  a 
general  conspiracy  against  him.  But  ever-growing  boredom 
dominated  everything  else — the  ennui  of  a  man  whose  mind 
was  unhinged  and  to  whom  the  incessant  idea  of  death 
made  all  action  distasteful,  so  that  he  dragged  himself  idly 
through  life  on  the  plea  of  its  nothingness  and  worthlessness. 
What  was  the  use  of  troubling?  The  powers  of  science 
were  miserably  limited  ;  it  could  neither  prevent  nor  foresee. 
He  was  possessed  by  the  sceptical  ennui  of  his  generation, 
not  the  romantic  ennui  of  Werther  or  Rene\  who  regretfully 
wept  over  the  old  beliefs,  but  the  ennui  of  the  new  doubters, 
the  young  scientists  who  worry  themselves  and  declare  that 
the  world  is  unendurable  because  they  have  not  immediately 
found  the  secret  of  life  in  their  retorts. 

In  Lazare  the  unavowed  terror  of  ceasing  to  be  was,  by 
a  logical  contradiction,  blended  with  a  ceaseless  braggart 
insistence  upon  the  nothingness  of  things.  It  was  his  very 
terror,  the  want  of  equilibrium  in  his  morbid  temperament, 
that  drove  him  into  pessimistic  ideas  and  a  mad  hatred  of 
life.  As  it  could  not  last  for  ever,  he  looked  upon  it  as 
a  mere  fraud  and  delusion.  Was  not  the  first  half  of  one's 
days  spent  in  dreaming  of  happiness  and  the  latter  half  in 
regrets  and  fears  ?  He  fell  back  again  upon  the  theories  of 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  263 

'  the  old  one,'  as  he  called  Schopenhauer,  whose  most  violent 
passages  he  used  to  recite  from  memory.  He  expatiated  on 
the  desirability  of  destroying  the  wish  to  live,  and  so  bringing 
to  an  end  the  barbarous  and  imbecile  exhibition  of  existence, 
with  the  spectacle  of  which  the  master  force  of  the  world, 
prompted  by  some  incomprehensible  egotistical  reason, 
amused  itself.  He  wanted  to  do  away  with  life  in  order  to 
do  away  with  fear.  He  always  harped  upon  the  great 
deliverance  ;  one  must  wish  nothing  for  fear  of  evil,  avoid 
all  action  since  it  meant  pain,  and  thus  sink  entirely  into 
death.  He  occupied  himself  in  trying  to  discover  some 
practical  method  of  general  suicide,  some  sudden  and 
complete  disappearance  to  which  all  living  creatures  would 
consent.  This  was  perpetually  recurring  to  his  mind,  even  in 
the  midst  of  ordinary  conversation,  when  he  freely  and 
roughly  gave  vent  to  it.  The  slightest  worry  was  sufficient 
to  make  him  cry  that  he  was  sorry  he  was  not  yet  annihi- 
lated ;  a  mere  headache  set  him  raging  furiously  at  his  body. 
If  he  talked  with  a  friend,  his  conversation  immediately 
turned  upon  the  woes  of  life,  and  the  luck  of  those  who  were 
already  fattening  the  dandelions  in  the  cemeteries.  He  had 
a  perfect  mania  for  mournful  subjects,  and  he  was  much 
interested  in  an  article  by  a  fanciful  astronomer  who  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  a  comet  with  a  tail  which  would 
sweep  the  earth  away  like  a  grain  of  sand.  Would  not  this 
indeed  prove  the  expected  cosmical  catastrophe,  the  colossal 
cartridge  destined  to  blow  the  world  to  bits  like  a  rotten  old 
boat  ?  And  this  desire  of  his  for  death,  this  constant  theorizing 
about  universal  annihilation,  was  but  the  expression  of  his 
desperate  struggle  with  his  terror,  a  mere  vain  hubbub  of 
words,  by  which  he  tried  to  veil  the  awful  fear  which  the 
expectation  of  his  end  caused  him. 

The  knowledge  that  his  wife  was  enceinte  gave  him  a 
fresh  shock.  It  caused  him  an  indefinable  sensation,  com- 
pounded of  joy  and  an  increase  of  disquietude.  Notwith- 
standing the  contrary  views  of  '  the  old  one,'  the  thought  of 
becoming  a  father  thrilled  him  with  pride — indeed,  a  vain 
wonder,  as  though  he  were  the  first  person  whom  such  a 
thing  had  befallen.  But  his  joy  quickly  became  poisoned  ;  he 
tormented  himself  with  forebodings  of  a  disastrous  issue ; 
already  making  up  his  mind  that  his  wife  would  die,  and 
that  the  child  would  never  be  born.  And,  indeed,  it  happened 
that  Louise's  health  became  very  bad,  for  she  was  far  from 


264  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

strong ;  and  then  the  confusion  of  the  household  and  the 
upsetting  of  their  usual  habits,  together  with  their  frequent 
bickerings,  soon  made  them  both  thoroughly  miserable. 
The  expectation  of  a  child,  which  ought  to  have  brought  the 
husband  and  wife  more  closely  together,  only  served,  indeed, 
to  increase  the  misunderstanding  between  them.  Thus, 
when  Louise's  doctor  suggested  a  visit  to  the  mountains, 
Lazare  was  delighted  to  take  her  to  her  sister-in-law's  and 
secure  a  fortnight's  freedom  for  himself  on  the  plea  of  going 
to  see  his  father  at  Bonneville.  At  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
he  really  felt  ashamed  of  this  flight ;  but,  after  arguing  the 
matter  with  his  conscience,  he  persuaded  himself  that  a 
short  separation  would  have  a  tranquillising  effect  upon 
both  of  them,  and  that  it  would  be  quite  sufficient  if  he 
joined  his  wife  before  the  expected  event. 

On  the  evening  when  Pauline  at  last  learned  the  whole 
history  of  the  past  eighteen  months  she  remained  for  a 
moment  unable  to  speak — quite  overcome,  indeed,  by  the 
pitiable  story.  They  were  sitting  in  the  dining-room ; 
she  had  put  Chanteau  to  bed,  and  Lazare  had  just  finished 
making  his  confession  in  front  of  the  cold  tea-pot,  beneath 
the  lamp  which  was  now  burning  dimly. 

After  an  interval  of  silence  Pauline  at  last  exclaimed : 

'  Why,  you  don't  love  each  other  any  longer  ! ' 

Her  cousin  rose  to  go  upstairs,  and  replied,  with  an 
uneasy  smile : 

'  We  love  each  other  as  much  as  is  possible,  my  dear  girl. 
You  don't  understand  things,  shut  up  here  in  this  hole. 
Why  should  love  fare  better  than  anything  else  ? ' 

As  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her  own  room 
Pauline  fell  into  one  of  those  fits  of  despondency  which  had 
so  often  tortured  her  and  kept  her  awake,  on  the  very  same 
chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them  were  sleeping.  Was  there 
going  to  be  a  renewal  of  trouble  ?  She  had  hoped  it  was 
all  done  with,  both  for  others  and  herself,  when  she  had 
torn  her  heart  asunder  and  given  Lazare  to  Louise  ;  and  now 
she  found  how  useless  her  sacrifice  had  been.  They  had 
already  ceased  to  love  each  other ;  it  was  all  to  no  purpose 
that  she  had  wept  bitter  tears  and  martyred  herself.  To  this 
wretched  result  had  she  come,  to  fresh  trouble  and  strife,  the 
thought  of  which  added  to  her  grief.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  end  to  suffering ! 

Then  as,  with  her  arms  hanging  listlessly  in  front  of  her, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  265 

she  sat  watching  her  candle  burn  away,  the  oppressive 
thought  arose  from  her  conscience  that  she  alone  was  guilty. 
She  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  struggle  against  the  facts.  It  was 
she  alone  who  had  brought  about  that  marriage,  without 
understanding  that  Louise  would  never  prove  the  wife  that 
her  cousin  needed.  She  saw  it  now  clearly  enough.  She 
recognised  that  the  other  was  much  too  nervously  inclined 
herself  to  be  able  to  steady  him,  for  she  lost  her  head  at 
the  merest  trifle,  and  her  only  charm  lay  in  her  caressing 
nature — a  charm  of  which  Lazare  had  already  tired.  Why 
did  all  this  only  occur  to  her  now  ?  Were  not  these,  indeed, 
the  very  reasons  which  had  determined  her  to  let  Louise 
take  her  place  ?  She  had  thought  that  Louise  possessed 
a  more  loving  nature  than  her  own  ;  she  had  believed  that 
Louise,  with  her  kisses  and  caresses,  would  be  able  to  free 
Lazare  from  his  gloomy  despondency.  Ah !  the  pity  of  it 
all !  To  have  brought  about  evil  when  she  had  striven 
to  accomplish  good,  and  to  have  shown  such  ignorance  of 
life  as  to  have  brought  ruin  upon  those  she  yearned  to  save  ! 
Yet  she  had  felt  so  sure  that  she  was  right  and  was  perfecting 
her  good  work  on  the  day  when  their  happiness  had  cost  her 
such  bitter  tears  !  Now  she  felt  contempt  for  her  kind- 
liness, since  kindliness  did  not  always  create  happiness. 

The  house  was  wrapped  in  sleep.  In  the  quiet  of  her 
room  she  could  hear  nothing  but  the  throbbing  of  her 
temples.  Within  her  was  gradually  surging  a  rebellious 
regret.  Why  had  she  not  married  Lazare  herself  ?  He  had 
been  hers ;  she  had  had  no  right  to  give  him  to  another. 
Perhaps  he  might  have  been  wretched  and  despondent  at 
first,  but  by-and-by  she  would  have  restored  his  courage  and 
protected  him  from  his  insane  fancies.  She  had  always  felt 
foolishly  doubtful  of  herself,  and  from  that  alone  all  the 
unhappiness  had  arisen.  The  consciousness  of  her  own 
robust  health  and  strength  and  all  her  power  of  affection 
forced  itself  upon  her  again.  Was  she  not  superior  in  every  way 
to  that  other  girl?  How  foolish  she  had  been  in  weakly 
effacing  herself !  She  loved  her  cousin  sufficiently  well  to 
disappear  if  the  other  girl  could  make  him  happy  ;  but  since 
she  knew  not  how  to  keep  his  love,  was  it  not  her  duty  to  act 
and  break  that  wicked  union  ?  And  her  anger  grew  apace  ; 
she  felt  that  she  was  both  braver  and  more  beautiful  than 
the  other.  Conviction  flashed  upon  her  mind ;  it  was  she 
who  ought  to  have  married  Lazare. 


266  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

Then  she  was  overwhelmed  with  regret.  The  hours  ol 
the  night  passed,  one  by  one,  yet  she  did  not  think  of  seeking 
her  bed.  She  sat  there,  staring  at  the  tall  flame  of  the 
candle  without  seeing  it,  in  a  vivid  waking  dream.  She  was 
no  longer  in  her  old  bedroom.  She  thought  she  had  married 
Lazare,  and  their  life  unrolled  itself  before  her  eyes  in  a  series 
of  pictures  of  love  and  delight.  They  were  at  Bonneville,  by 
the  edge  of  the  blue  sea,  or  in  Paris,  in  some  busy  street. 
They  were  in  a  peaceful  little  room,  with  books  lying  about  it 
and  sweet  roses  on  the  table  ;  the  lamp  gave  out  a  soft,  clear 
light,  while  the  ceiling  was  steeped  in  shadow.  Every 
moment  their  hands  sought  each  other.  Lazare  had  recovered 
all  the  careless  gaiety  of  his  early  youth,  and  she  loved  him 
so  much  that  he  had  again  come  to  believe  in  the  eternity  of 
existence.  Just  now  they  were  sitting  at  table  ;  now  they  were 
going  out  together  ;  to-morrow  she  would  go  over  the  week's 
accounts  with  him.  She  loved  those  little  domestic  details  ; 
she  made  them  the  foundation  of  their  happiness,  which  knew 
no  break  from  the  laughing  toilet  in  the  morning  until  the 
last  kiss  at  night.  In  the  summer  they  travelled.  Then 
one  day  she  discovered  that  she  was  likely  to  become  a 
mother.  But  just  then  a  shivering  shudder  dissipated  her 
dream,  and  she  was  no  longer  far  away,  but  in  her  own  room 
at  Bonneville,  staring  at  her  expiring  candle.  A  mother ! 
Ah !  the  misery  of  it  1  It  was  that  other  who  would  be  one  ; 
never  would  any  of  those  things  happen  to  herself,  never 
would  those  joys  be  hers !  The  shock  was  so  painful  that 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  she  wept  distractedly,  sob- 
bing like  one  heart-broken.  At  last  the  candle  burnt  out,  and 
she  had  to  seek  her  bed  in  darkness. 

That  feverish  night  left  Pauline  with  a  feeling  of  deep 
emotion  and  charitable  pity  for  the  disunited  husband  and 
wife,  and  for  herself.  Her  grief  melted  into  a  kind  of  affec- 
tionate hope.  She  could  not  have  told  on  what  she  was 
reckoning;  she  dared  not  analyse  the  confused  sentiments 
which  agitated  her  heart.  But,  after  all,  why  should  she 
trouble  herself  in  this  way  ?  Hadn't  she  at  least  ten  days 
before  her  ?  It  would  be  time  enough  to  think  of  matters 
by-and-by.  What  was  of  immediate  importance  was  to  tran- 
quillise  Lazare,  so  that  he  might  derive  some  benefit  from 
his  stay  at  Bonneville.  And  she  assumed  her  old  gaiety  of 
demeanour,  and  soon  they  plunged  afresh  into  their  life  of 
former  days. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  267 

At  first  it  seemed  a  renewal  of  the  old  comradeship  of 
early  youth.  'Don't  bother  about  that  tiresome  play  of 
yours.  It  will  only  get  hissed.  Come  and  help  me  to  look 
whether  Minouche  has  carried  my  ball  of  thread  on  to  the 
top  of  the  cupboard,'  said  Pauline. 

He  held  a  chair  for  her,  while  she  mounted  upon  it,  and, 
standing  on  tip-toes,  looked  for  the  missing  thread.  The 
rain  had  been  falling  for  the  last  two  days  and  they  could  not 
leave  the  big  room.  Their  laughter  rang  out  as  they  kept  on 
unearthing  some  relic  of  old  days. 

'  Oh,  see  !  here  is  the  doll  which  you  made  out  of  two  of 
my  old  collars.  Ah  !  and  this — don't  you  remember  ? — is 
the  portrait  of  you  that  I  drew  the  day  when  you  made  your- 
self so  frightfully  ugly  by  getting  into  a  rage  and  crying, 
because  I  wouldn't  lend  you  my  razor.' 

Then  Pauline  wagered  that  she  could  still  jump  at  a 
single  bound  on  to  the  table ;  Lazare,  too,  jumped,  quite 
glad  at  being  drawn  out  of  himself.  His  play  was  already 
lying  neglected  in  a  drawer.  One  morning  when  they  came 
across  the  great  symphony  on  Grief  she  played  portions 
of  it  to  him,  accentuating  the  rhythm  in  a  comical  fashion. 
He  made  fun  of  his  composition  and  sang  the  notes  to  support 
the  piano,  whose  weak  tones  could  scarcely  be  heard.  But 
one  little  bit,  the  famous  March  of  Death,  made  them  both 
serious  ;  it  was  really  not  bad,  and  must  be  preserved. 
Everything  pleased  them  and  struck  a  chord  of  tenderness  in 
their  hearts  :  a  collection  of  floridce  which  Pauline  had  once 
mounted,  and  which  they  now  discovered  behind  some  books ; 
a  forgotten  jar  containing  a  sample  of  the  bromide  of  potas- 
sium which  they  had  extracted  from  the  seaweed ;  a  small 
broken  model  of  a  stockade,  which  looked  as  though  it  had 
been  wrecked  by  a  storm  in  a  teacup.  Then  they  romped  over 
the  house,  chasing  each  other  like  schoolboys  at  play.  They 
were  perpetually  rushing  up  and  down  the  stairs  and  scamper- 
ing through  the  rooms,  banging  the  doors  noisily.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  old  days  had  come  back  again.  She  was  ten  years 
old  once  more,  and  he  was  nineteen ;  and  she  again  felt  for 
him  all  the  enthusiastic  friendship  of  a  little  girl.  Nothing 
was  changed.  In  the  dining-room  there  still  remained  the 
sideboard  of  bright  walnut,  the  polished  brass  hanging- 
lamp,  the  view  of  Vesuvius,  and  the  four  lithographs  of  the 
Seasons,  while  the  grandfather's  masterpiece  still  slum- 
bered in  its  old  place.  There  was  only  one  room  which  they 


268  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

entered  with  silent  emotion — that  which  Madame  Chanteau 
had  occupied,  and  which  had  been  unused  since  her  death. 
The  secretaire  was  never  opened  now,  but  the  hangings  of 
yellow  cretonne,  with  their  pattern  of  flower- work,  were  fading 
from  the  bright  sunlight  which  was  occasionally  allowed  to 
enter  the  room.  It  so  happened  that  the  anniversary  of 
Madame  Chanteau' s  birth  came  round  about  this  time,  and 
they  decked  the  room  with  big  bunches  of  flowers. 

Soon,  however,  as  the  wind  rose  and  dispersed  the  rain- 
clouds,  they  betook  themselves  out  of  doors  on  to  the  terrace, 
into  the  kitchen-garden  and  along  the  cliffs,  and  their  youth 
began  anew. 

'  Shall  we  go  shrimping  ?  '  Pauline  cried  to  her  cousin  one 
morning,  through  the  partition,  as  she  sprang  out  of  bed. 
1  The  tide  is  going  down.' 

They  set  off  in  bathing  costumes,  and  once  more  found  the 
old  familiar  rocks  on  which  the  sea  had  wrought  no  perceptible 
change  during  the  past  weeks  and  months.  They  could  have 
fancied  that  they  had  been  exploring  that  part  of  the  coast  only 
the  day  before. 

'  Take  care  ! '  cried  Lazare  ;  '  there  is  a  hole  there,  you 
know,  and  the  bottom  of  it  is  full  of  big  stones.' 

'  Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  don't  be  frightened —  Oh !  do  come 
and  look  at  this  huge  crab  I  have  just  caught ! ' 

The  cool  waves  splashed  round  their  legs  and  the  fresh 
salt  breezes  from  the  sea  intoxicated  them.  All  their  old 
rambles  were  resumed — the  long  walks,  the  pleasant  rests  on 
the  sands,  the  hasty  refuge  sought  in  some  hollow  of  the  cliffs 
at  the  approach  of  sudden  showers,  and  the  return  home 
at  nightfall  along  the  dusky  paths.  Nothing  seemed  changed ; 
the  sea,  with  its  ceaselessly  varying  aspect,  still  stretched 
out  into  the  boundless  distance.  Little  forgotten  incidents 
returned  to  their  memory  with  all  the  vividness  of  present 
facts.  Lazare  seemed  to  be  still  six-and-twenty  and  Pauline 
sixteen.  When  he  casually  happened  to  pull  her  about  with 
his  old  playful  familiarity,  she  seemed  greatly  embarrassed, 
however,  and  was  thrilled  with  delicious  confusion.  But  she 
in  no  way  tried  to  avoid  him,  for  she  had  no  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  evil.  Fresh  life  began  to  animate  them ;  there 
were  whispered  words,  causeless  laughter,  long  intervals  of 
silence  which  left  them  quivering.  The  most  trivial  incidents 
— a  request  for  some  bread,  a  remark  about  the  weather, 
the  good-nights  they  wished  each  other  as  they  went  to  bed — 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  269 

seemed  full  of  a  new  and  strange  meaning.  All  their  past 
life  was  reviving  within  them  and  thrilling  them  with  the 
tenderness  that  comes  of  the  remembrance  of  former  happi- 
ness. Why  should  they  have  felt  anxious?  They  did  not 
resist  the  spell ;  the  sea,  with  its  ceaseless  monotonous  voice, 
seemed  to  lull  and  fill  them  with  pleasant  languor. 

And  so  the  days  quietly  passed  by.  The  third  week  of 
Lazare's  visit  was  already  commencing.  He  still  stayed  on, 
though  he  had  received  several  letters  from  Louise,  who  felt  very 
lonely,  but  whom  her  sister-in-law  wished  to  keep  with  her 
some  time  longer.  In  his  replies  he  had  strongly  advised  her 
to  stay  where  she  was,  even  telling  her  that  Doctor  Cazenove, 
whom  he  had  consulted  on  the  matter,  recommended  her  to 
do  so.  Gradually  he  fell  again  into  the  quiet  routine  of  the 
house,  accustoming  himself  once  more  to  the  old  times  for 
meals,  for  getting  up  and  going  to  bed,  which  he  had  changed 
in  Paris,  as  well  as  to  Veronique's  grumpy  humour  and  the 
incessant  suffering  of  his  father,  who  remained  immutable, 
ever  racked  by  pain,  while  everything  around  him  altered. 
Lazare  was  confronted,  too,  by  the  Saturday  dinners,  and 
the  familiar  faces  of  the  Doctor  and  the  Abb6,  with  their 
eternal  talk  of  the  last  gale  or  the  visitors  at  Arromanches. 
Minouche  still  jumped  upon  the  table  at  dessert  as  lightly  as  a 
feather,  or  rubbed  her  head  caressingly  against  his  chin,  and 
the  gentle  scratching  of  her  teeth  seemed  to  carry  him  back 
long  years.  There  was  nothing  new  amongst  all  those  old 
familiar  things  save  Loulou,  who  lay  rolled  up  under  the 
table,  looking  mournful  and  hideous,  and  growling  at  every- 
one who  came  near  him.  It  was  in  vain  that  Lazare  gave 
him  sugar ;  when  he  had  swallowed  it,  the  wretched  beast 
only  showed  his  teeth  more  surlily  than  before.  They  were 
obliged  to  leave  him  entirely  to  himself ;  he  led  quite  a  lonely 
life  in  the  house,  like  an  unsociable  being  who  only  asks  of 
men  and  gods  to  be  allowed  to  spend  his  time  in  quiet 
boredom. 

However,  Pauline  and  Lazare  sometimes  had  adventures 
when  they  were  out  walking.  One  day,  when  they  had 
quitted  the  path  along  the  cliffs  to  avoid  passing  the  works 
at  Golden  Bay,  they  came  across  Boutigny  at  a  bend  of  the 
road.  He  was  now  a  person  of  some  importance,  for  he  had 
grown  rich  by  the  manufacture  of  soda.  He  had  married  the 
woman  who  had  shown  herself  so  devoted  as  to  follow  him 
into  that  deserted  region,  and  she  had  recently  given  birth  to 


270  THE  /OY  OF  LIFE 

her  third  child.  The  whole  family,  attended  by  a  man- 
servant and  a  nurse,  were  driving  in  a  handsome  break,  drawn 
by  a  pair  of  big  white  horses,  and  the  two  pedestrians  had  to 
squeeze  themselves  against  the  bank  to  escape  being  caught 
by  the  wheels.  Boutigny,  who  was  driving,  checked  the 
horses  into  a  walking  pace.  There  was  a  moment's  embar- 
rassment. They  had  not  spoken  for  years,  and  the  presence 
of  the  woman  and  the  children  made  the  embarrassment  still 
more  painful.  At  last,  as  their  eyes  met,  they  just 'bowed  to 
each  other,  without  a  word. 

When  the  carriage  had  passed  on,  Lazare,  who  had 
turned  pale,  said  with  an  effort : 

'  So  he's  living  like  a  prince  now ! ' 

Pauline,  whom  the  sight  of  the  children  had  affected, 
answered  gently : 

'  Yes ;  it  seems  he  has  made  some  enormous  profits  lately. 
He  has  begun  to  try  your  old  experiments  again.' 

That,  indeed,  was  the  sore  point  with  Lazare.  The 
Bonneville  fishermen,  who  with  their  pertinacious  banter 
seemed  bent  on  making  themselves  disagreeable  to  him, 
had  informed  him  of  what  had  taken  place.  Boutigny, 
assisted  by  a  young  chemist  in  his  employment,  was  again 
applying  the  freezing  treatment  to  seaweed  ashes,  and,  by 
practical  and  prudent  perseverance,  had  obtained  marvellous 
results. 

'  Of  course ! '  Lazare  growled,  in  a  low  voice ;  '  every 
time  that  science  takes  a  step  forward,  it  is  some  fool  that 
helps  her  on  through  sheer  accident.' 

Their  walk  was  spoilt  by  that  meeting,  and  they  went 
on  in  silence,  gazing  into  the  distance  and  watching  the  grey 
vapour  rise  from  the  sea  and  spread  palely  over  the  sky. 
When  they  returned  home  at  nightfall,  they  were  shivering  ; 
however,  the  cheerful  light  of  the  hanging-lamp  streaming 
down  upon  the  white  cloth  warmed  them  again. 

Another  day,  as  they  were  following  a  path  through  a  field 
of  beet  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Verchemont,  they  stopped  in 
surprise  at  seeing  some  smoke  rising  from  a  thatched  roof. 
The  place  was  on  fire,  but  the  brilliance  of  the  sun's  rays 
streaming  from  overhead  prevented  the  blaze  from  being 
seen.  The  house,  which  had  its  doors  and  windows  closed, 
was  apparently  deserted,  its  peasant  owners  doubtless  being 
at  work  in  the  neighbourhood.  Pauline  and  Lazare  at 
pnce  left  the  path,  and  ran  up  shouting,  but  with  no  other 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  271 

effect  than  that  of  disturbing  some  magpies  who  were  chatter- 
ing in  the  apple-trees.  At  last  a  woman  with  a  handker- 
chief round  her  head  appeared  from  a  distant  field  of  carrots, 
glanced  about  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  rushed  on  over 
the  ploughed  land  as  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her.  She 
gesticulated  and  shouted  something  which  the  others  could 
not  catch,  for  flight  interfered  with  her  utterance.  After 
tripping  and  falling  she  got  up,  then  fell  again,  and  started  off 
once  more,  with  her  hands  torn  and  bleeding.  Her  kerchief 
had  slipped  off  her  head,  and  her  hair  streamed  in  the 
sunlight. 

'  What  was  it  she  said  ?  '  asked  Pauline,  feeling  frightened. 

The  woman  was  rushing  up  to  them,  and  at  last  they 
heard  her  hoarse  scream,  like  the  wail  of  an  animal : 

'  The  child !  the  child  !  the  child  ! ' 

Her  husband  and  son  had  been  at  work  since  the  morning 
some  couple  of  miles  away  in  an  oat-field  which  they  had 
inherited.  She  herself  had  only  lately  gone  out  to  get  a 
basketful  of  carrots,  leaving  the  child  asleep,  and,  contrary 
to  her  habit,  fastening  up  the  house.  The  fire  had  probably 
been  smouldering  some  time,  for  the  woman  was  stupefied, 
and  swore  she  had  extinguished  every  ember  before  going  out. 
At  all  events  the  thatched  roof  was  now  aglow,  and  flame* 
shot  up  athwart  the  golden  sunlight. 

'  Is  the  door  locked,  then  ?  '  cried  Lazare. 

The  woman  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  quite  distraught, 
and  rushed  without  any  apparent  reason  round  the  house, 
as  though  she  were  trying  to  discover  some  opening, 
some  means  of  entrance  which  she  must  have  known  did 
not  exist.  Then  she  fell  again.  Her  legs  no  longer  had 
the  strength  to  support  her,  and  her  ashy  face  showed 
all  the  agony  of  despair  and  terror,  while  she  continued 
screaming : 

1  The  child  !  the  child ! ' 

Big  tears  rose  to  Pauline's  eyes ;  but  Lazare  was  even 
more  painfully  affected  by  the  woman's  cry,  which  com- 
pletely unnerved  him.  It  was  becoming  more  than  he  could 
bear,  and  he  suddenly  exclaimed  : 

'  I'll  go  and  fetch  your  child  ! ' 

His  cousin  looked  at  him  in  wild  alarm.  She  grasped  his 
hands  and  tried  to  hold  him  back. 

'  You  !  you  mustn't  go  I     The  roof  will  fall  in ! ' 

'  We'll  see  about  that,'  he  replied  quietly. 


272  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Then  he  shouted  in  the  woman's  face  : 

'  Your  key !    You've  got  your  key  with  you,  haven't  you  ? ' 

The  woman  still  remained  agape,  but  Lazare  hustled  her 
and  at  last  wrung  from  her  the  key.  Then,  while  the 
woman  remained  screaming  on  the  ground,  he  stepped 
quietly  towards  the  house.  Pauline  followed  him  with  her 
eyes,  rooted  to  the  ground  with  fear  and  astonishment,  but 
making  no  further  attempt  to  detain  him,  for  it  seemed  by 
his  demeanour  as  though  he  were  about  to  attend  to  some 
very  ordinary  business.  A  shower  of  sparks  rained  on  him, 
and  he  had  to  squeeze  himself  closely  against  the  door,  for 
handfuls  of  burning  straw  fell  from  the  roof,  like  water 
streaming  down  during  a  storm.  Moreover,  he  found  himseli 
hindered  by  an  annoying  obstacle.  The  rusty  key  would  not 
turn  in  the  lock.  But  he  manifested  no  irritation ;  coolly 
taking  his  time,  he  at  last  succeeded  in  opening  the  door. 
Then  he  lingered  for  a  moment  longer  on  the  threshold,  in 
order  to  let  out  the  first  rush  of  smoke,  which  blew  in  his 
face.  Never  before  had  he  known  such  calmness ;  he 
moved  as  though  he  were  in  a  dream,  with  all  the  assurance, 
skilfulness,  and  prudence  which  the  danger  he  was  encounter- 
ing inspired.  At  last  he  lowered  his  head  and  disappeared 
within  the  cottage. 

'  0  God  1  0  God ! '  stammered  Pauline,  who  was  choking 
with  anguish. 

She  clasped  her  hands  involuntarily,  almost  crushing 
them  together  as  she  moved  them  up  and  down,  like  one 
racked  by  great  agony.  The  roof  was  cracking,  and  was 
already  collapsing  in  places.  Never  would  Lazare  have  time 
to  make  his  escape.  It  seemed  an  eternity  to  her  since  he 
had  entered.  The  woman  on  the  ground  had  ceased  crying  ; 
the  sight  of  the  gentleman  rushing  into  the  fire  seemed  to 
have  stupefied  her. 

But  a  piercing  cry  broke  through  the  air.  It  had  come 
involuntarily  from  Pauline,  from  the  very  depths  of  her  being, 
as  she  saw  the  thatch  fall  in  between  the  smoking  walls  : 

'  Lazare ! ' 

He  was  at  the  door,  his  hair  scarcely  singed  and  his 
hands  but  slightly  scorched ;  and  when  he  had  tossed  the 
child,  who  was  struggling  and  crying,  into  the  woman's  arms, 
he  almost  became  angry  with  his  cousin : 

'  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  are  you  going  on 
like  this  for  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  273 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  burst  out  sobbing 
in  such  a  state  of  nervous  excitement  that,  fearing  she 
might  faint,  he  made  her  sit  down  on  an  old  moss-covered 
stone  by  the  side  of  the  house  well.  He  himself  was  now 
beginning  to  feel  faint.  There  was  a  trough  full  of  water 
there,  and  he  steeped  his  hands  in  it  with  a  sensation  of 
acute  relief.  The  coldness  restored  him  to  himself,  and  he 
then  began  to  experience  great  surprise  at  what  he  had  done. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  gone  into  the  midst  of  those 
flames  ?  It  was  as  if  he  had  had  a  double ;  he  could  dis- 
tinctly see  himself  showing  incredible  agility  and  presence  of 
mind  amidst  the  smoke,  as  though  he  were  looking  at  some 
wonderful  feat  performed  by  a  stranger.  A  remnant  of 
mental  exaltation  filled  him  with  a  subtle  joy  which  he  had 
never  known  before. 

Pauline  had  recovered  a  little,  and  examined  his  hands, 
saying  : 

'  No !  there's  no  great  harm  done.  The  burns  are  only 
slight  ones.  But  we  must  go  home  at  once,  and  I  will  attend 
to  them.  Oh  !  how  you  did  frighten  me  ! ' 

She  dipped  her  handkerchief  in  the  water  and  bound 
it  round  his  right  hand,  which  was  the  more  severely  burnt 
of  the  two.  Then  they  rose  and  tried  to  console  the 
woman,  who,  after  showering  wild  kisses  on  the  child,  had 
laid  it  down  near  her,  and  was  now  not  even  looking  at  it. 
She  had  begun  to  grieve  about  the  house,  wailing  pitiably 
as  she  asked  what  would  her  men  say  and  do  when  they 
came  back  and  found  their  home  in  ruins.  The  walls  were 
still  standing,  and  black  smoke  was  pouring  out  of  the  brazier 
within  them,  amidst  a  loud  crackling  of  sparks  which  could 
not  be  seen. 

'  Come !  my  poor  woman,'  Pauline  said  to  her ;  '  don't  be 
so  down-hearted.  Come  and  see  us  to-morrow.' 

Some  neighbours,  attracted  by  the  smoke,  now  ran  up, 
and  Pauline  led  Lazare  away.  Their  return  home  was  a 
very  pleasant  one.  Though  Lazare  suffered  but  little  pain, 
his  cousin  insisted  upon  giving  him  her  arm  to  support  him. 
They  still  felt  too  much  emotion  to  speak,  and  they  looked  at 
each  other  smiling.  Pauline  felt  a  kind  of  happy  pride.  He 
must  really  be  brave,  then,  in  spite  of  his  pallor  at  the  thought 
of  death  !  As  they  made  their  way  along  she  became  ab- 
sorbed in  astonishment  at  the  inconsistencies  of  the  only  man 
whom  she  knew  well.  She  had  seen  him  spend  whole  nights 

T 


274  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

at  his  work,  and  then  give  himself  up  to  idleness  for  months. 
She  had  known  him  exhibit  the  most  uncompromising  truth- 
fulness after  lying  unblushingly.  She  had  received  a  brotherly 
kiss  from  him  on  her  brow,  and  she  had  felt  his  hands, 
hot  and  feverish  with  passion,  burn  her  wrists  with  their 
grasp  ;  and  now  to-day  he  had  proved  himself  a  hero.  She 
had  done  right,  then,  in  not  despairing  of  life,  in  not  judging 
that  everyone  must  be  altogether  good  or  altogether  bad. 
When  they  arrived  at  Bonneville  their  emotion  and  silence 
found  relief  in  a  torrent  of  rapid  talk.  They  went  over  every 
little  detail  again,  recounting  the  story  a  score  of  times,  and 
remembering  at  each  repetition  some  little  incident  that  had 
been  previously  forgotten.  The  affair  was  indeed  talked 
about  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  and  help  was  sent  to  the 
burnt-out  peasants. 

Lazare  had  been  nearly  a  month  at  Bonneville  when  a 
letter  arrived  from  Louise,  complaining  that  she  was  utterly 
overwhelmed  with  ennui.  In  his  reply  to  it  he  told  her 
that  he  would  fetch  her  at  the  beginning  of  the  following 
week.  There  had  been  some  tremendous  falls  of  rain, 
those  violent  deluges  which  so  frequently  swept  down  upon 
the  district,  and  shrouded  earth,  sea,  and  sky  beneath  a 
pall  of  grey  vapour.  Lazare  had  spoken  seriously  of  finish- 
ing his  play,  and  Pauline,  whom  he  wished  to  have  near  him 
that  she  might  encourage  him,  took  her  knitting — the  little 
stockings  which  she  distributed  among  the  village  children — 
into  her  cousin's  room.  But  it  was  very  little  work  he  did 
when  she  had  taken  her  place  by  the  table.  They  were  con- 
stantly talking  to  each  other  in  low  tones,  repeating  the  same 
things  over  and  over  again,  without  ever  seeming  to  weary 
of  them,  while  their  eyes  never  strayed  from  one  another. 
Nothing  seemed  to  them  more  delightful  than  that  languid 
quiet,  that  feeling  of  drowsiness  which  glided  over  them, 
while  the  rain  pattered  down  upon  the  slates  of  the  roof.  An 
interval  of  silence  would  at  times  make  them  flush,  and  they 
unconsciously  put  a  caress  in  every  word  they  addressed  to 
each  other,  impelled  thereto  by  that  influence  which  had 
brought  a  renewal  of  those  old  days  which  they  had  thought 
had  passed  away  for  ever. 

One  evening  Pauline  had  sat  up  knitting  in  Lazare's  room 
till  nearly  midnight,  while  her  cousin,  whose  pen  had  dropped 
idly  from  his  fingers,  slowly  told  her  about  what  he  intended  to 
write  in  the  future — dramas  peopled  with  colossal  characters. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  275 

The  whole  house  was  asleep.  Veronique  had  gone  to  bed 
long  ago,  and  the  deep  stillness  of  the  night,  through  which 
only  broke  the  familiar  wail  of  the  high  tide,  gradually  per- 
meated them  with  tenderness.  Lazare,  unbosoming  himself, 
confessed  that  his  life  hitherto  had  been  a  failure  ;  if  litera- 
ture also  failed  him,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  retire  to 
some  secluded  spot  and  live  the  life  of  a  recluse. 

'  Do  you  know,'  he  added  with  a  smile,  '  I  often  think  that 
we  ought  to  have  emigrated  after  my  mother's  death  ?  ' 

'  Emigrated  !     Why  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  have  taken  ourselves  very  far  away — to  Oceania,  for 
instance,  to  one  of  those  islands  where  life  is  so  sweet  and 
pleasant.' 

'  But  your  father  ?     Should  we  have  taken  him  with  us  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  it's  only  a  fancy,  a  dream,  that  I'm  talking  of.  One 
may  indulge  in  pleasant  dreams,  you  know,  when  the  actual 
truth  is  not  very  cheerful.' 

He  had  risen  from  the  table  and  had  sat  down  upon  one 
of  the  arms  of  Pauline's  chair.  She  let  her  knitting  drop, 
that  she  might  laugh  at  ease  over  the  ceaseless  flow  of  tho 
young  man's  imagination. 

'  Are  you  mad,  my  poor  fellow  ? '  she  asked.  '  What  should 
we  have  done  out  there  ?  ' 

1  We  should  have  lived !  Do  you  remember  that  book  of 
travels  that  we  read  together  a  dozen  years  ago  ?  There  is  a 
perfect  paradise  out  there.  There  is  no  winter,  the  sky  is 
always  blue,  and  life  is  passed  beneath  the  sun  and  the  stars. 
We  should  have  had  a  cabin  and  have  lived  upon  delicious 
fruits,  with  nothing  to  do  and  never  a  trouble  to  vex  us.' 

'  Ah !  then  we  should  soon  have  become  a  pair  of 
savages,  with  rings  through  our  noses  and  feathers  on  our 
heads ! ' 

'  Well,  why  not  ?  We  should  have  loved  each  other  from 
one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  taking  no  count  of  the  days. 
Ah  !  it  would  have  been  delightful ! ' 

She  looked  at  him.  Her  eyelids  were  quivering  and  her 
face  turned  pale.  That  thought  of  love  had  filled  her  with 
delicious  languor.  He  had  playfully  taken  hold  of  her  hand 
and  was  smiling  in  an  embarrassed  manner.  At  first 
Pauline  felt  no  disquietude.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a 
revival  of  their  old  intimacy.  But  she  slowly  grew  disturbed  ; 
her  strength  seemed  to  ebb  from  her,  and  her  very  voice 
faltered  as  she  said  : 


276  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

1  Nothing  but  fruit  would  make  rather  a  spare  diet.  We 
should  have  had  to  hunt  and  fish,  and  cultivate  a  piece  of  land. 
If  it  is  true,  as  they  say,  that  the  women  do  the  work  out 
there,  would  you  have  set  me  to  dig  the  ground  ? ' 

'  You  !  With  those  tiny  hands  of  yours !  Oh  !  we  could 
have  made  capital  servants  out  of  the  monkeys,  you  know  ! ' 

She  smiled  languidly  at  this  pleasantry,  while  he 
added : 

'  Besides,  they  would  have  been  no  longer  in  existence, 
those  little  hands  of  yours  !  I  should  have  eaten  them  up — 
like  this !  ' 

He  kissed  her  hands  and  pretended  to  bite  at  them,  while 
the  blood  surged  to  his  face  in  a  sudden  thrill  of  passion. 
They  neither  of  them  spoke.  They  were  affected  by  a 
common  madness — a  vertigo  which  threw  them  both  into 
dizzy  faintness.  Pauline  seemed  on  the  point  of  swooning  ; 
her  eyes  closed ;  but  at  last,  as  Lazare's  lips  suddenly  met 
hers,  the  thrill  she  felt  made  her  raise  her  eyelids,  and  she 
awoke  like  one  who  has  just  passed  through  a  terrible  dream. 
Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and,  faint  though  she  still  felt, 
she  found  courage  to  resist  both  Lazare  and  her  own  passion. 
The  struggle  was  short,  but  violent.  She  repulsed  him  again 
and  again,  and  at  last,  profiting  by  a  brief  respite,  she  fled 
across  the  landing  into  her  own  room.  He  followed,  and  she 
could  hear  him  speaking  to  her,  but  in  spite  of  the  passionate 
promptings  of  her  own  heart  she  kept  silent.  He  sobbed  and 
her  own  tears  fell,  yet  she  gave  him  no  response.  When  at 
last  she  heard  him  close  his  door  behind  him  she  gave  full 
rein  to  her  grief.  It  was  all  over  and  she  had  conquered, 
but  her  victory  filled  her  with  distress.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  sleep ;  she  lay  awake  till  morning.  What  had 
happened  took  complete  possession  of  her  thoughts.  That 
evening  had  been  a  sin  at  which  she  now  shuddered  with 
horror.  She  felt  that  she  could  no  longer  find  excuse  for 
herself,  that  she  must  acknowledge  the  duplicity  of  her 
affections.  Her  motherly  love  for  Lazare  and  her  condemna- 
tion of  Louise  were  but  a  hypocritical  revival  of  her  old 
passion  for  her  cousin.  She  had  let  herself  glide  into 
falsehood,  for,  as  she  analysed  more  closely  the  secret 
sentiments  of  her  heart,  she  became  conscious  that  the 
rupture  between  Lazare  and  his  wife  had  pleased  her  rather 
than  otherwise,  and  that  she  had  hoped  in  some  way  to  profit 
by  it.  Was  it  not  she,  too,  who  had  brought  about  between 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  277 

her  cousin  and  herself  a  renewal  of  the  intimacy  of  former 
days  ?  Ought  she  not  to  have  known  that  the  result  must 
be  disastrous  ?  Now  matters  had  reached  a  terrible  pass, 
and  they  were  threatened  with  ruin.  She  had  given  him  to 
another,  while  she  herself  loved  him  passionately,  and  he, 
too,  longed  for  her.  This  thought  careered  through  her 
brain  and  beat  upon  her  temples  like  a  peal  of  bells.  At 
first  she  made  up  her  mind  to  run  away  from  the  house  in 
the  morning.  Then  she  thought  that  such  flight  would  be 
cowardly.  Since  Lazare  was  leaving  very  shortly,  why 
should  she  not  remain  ?  Her  pride,  too,  awoke  within  her ; 
she  resolved  to  conquer  herself,  for  she  felt  that  she  could 
never  again  carry  her  head  erect  should  the  occurrence  of 
that  night  inspire  her  with  remorse. 

The  next  morning  she  came  downstairs  at  her  accustomed 
hour.  There  was  nothing  about  her  to  reveal  the  night  of 
torture  she  had  spent  except  the  heaviness  of  her  eyes.  She 
was  pale  and  quite  calm.  When  Lazare  appeared  in  his 
turn,  he  explained  his  air  of  weary  lassitude  by  telling  his 
father  that  he  had  sat  up  late,  working.  The  day  passed  in 
the  usual  way.  Neither  Pauline  nor  Lazare  made  any 
reference  to  what  had  occurred  between  them,  even  when 
they  found  themselves  alone  and  free  from  all  observation. 
They  made  no  attempt  to  avoid  each  other ;  they  appeared 
quite  confident  of  themselves.  But  in  the  evening,  when 
they  wished  each  other  good-night  on  the  landing  near  their 
rooms,  they  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  their  lips  met  in 
a  kiss.  Then  Pauline,  full  of  alarm,  hastily  escaped  and 
locked  herself  in  her  room,  while  Lazare,  too,  rushed  away, 
bursting  into  tears. 

It  was  thus  that  they  continued  to  bear  themselves 
towards  each  other.  The  days  slowly  glided  away,  and  the 
cousins  lived  on  together  in  constant  anxiety  of  possible 
backsliding.  Though  they  never  spoke  of  such  a  thing,  and 
never  referred  to  that  terrible  night,  they  thought  of  it 
continually  and  were  filled  with  fear.  Their  sense  of  what 
was  right  and  honourable  remained  undimmed,  and  every 
sudden  little  lapse,  any  embrace  or  stolen  kiss,  left  them  full 
of  anger  with  themselves.  But  neither  had  the  courage  to 
take  the  only  safe  step,  that  of  immediate  separation. 
Pauline,  believing  that  it  would  be  cowardly  for  her  to  flee, 
persisted  in  remaining  in  the  presence  of  danger ;  while 
Lazare,  absorbed  in  his  transports,  did  not  even  reply  to  the 


278  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

pressing  letters  he  received  from  his  wife.  He  had  now  been 
six  weeks  at  Bonneville,  and  he  and  Pauline  had  begun  to 
believe  that  this  existence  of  alternate  pain  and  sweetness 
would  go  on  for  ever. 

One  Sunday,  at  dinner,  Chanteau  became  quite  gay,  after 
venturing  to  drink  a  glass  of  Burgundy,  a  luxury  for  which 
he  had  to  pay  very  dearly  each  time  that  he  indulged  in  it. 
Pauline  and  Lazare  had  spent  some  delightful  hours  together 
by  the  sea  under  the  bright  blue  sky,  exchanging  looks  full 
of  tenderness,  though  marked  with  that  haunting  fear  of 
themselves  which  infused  such  passion  into  their  intimacy. 

They  were  all  three  smiling,  when  Ve"ronique,  who  was 
just  about  to  bring  in  the  dessert,  called  from  the  door  of  the 
kitchen : 

'  Here  comes  Madame  ! ' 

'  Madame  who  ? '  cried  Pauline,  with  a  feeling  of  stupe- 
faction. 

'  Madame  Louise  ! ' 

They  all  broke  out  into  exclamations.  Chanteau,  quite 
scared,  gazed  at  Pauline  and  Lazare,  who  had  turned  very 
pale.  But  the  latter  rose  excitedly  from  his  seat  and 
stammered  angrily : 

'  What !  Louise  ?  She  never  told  me  she  was  coming, 
and  I  had  forbidden  her  to  do  so.  She  must  be  mad  1 ' 

The  twilight  was  falling,  soft  and  clear.  Lazare  threw 
down  his  napkin  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  Pauline 
followed  him,  struggling  to  regain  her  cheerful  serenity.  It 
was  indeed  Louise  who  was  alighting  with  difficulty  from 
old  Malivoire's  coach. 

'  Are  you  mad  ? '  her  husband  cried  to  her  across  the 
yard.  '  Why  have  you  done  such  a  foolish  thing  without 
writing  to  me  ? ' 

Then  Louise  burst  into  tears.  She  had  been  so  poorly 
at  Clermont,  she  said,  and  had  felt  so  depressed  and  weary. 
And  as  her  two  last  letters  had  remained  unanswered,  she 
had  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  set  off,  a  yearning  desire  to 
see  Bonneville  again.  If  she  had  not  sent  him  word  of  her 
intention,  it  was  because  she  feared  that  he  might  have 
prevented  her  from  satisfying  her  whim. 

'  And  to  think  I  was  pleased  with  the  idea  of  taking  you 
all  by  surprise ! '  she  concluded. 

'  It  is  idiotic  1  You  will  go  back  again  to-morrow  ! '  her 
husband  cried. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  279 

Louise,  quite  overcome,  crushed  by  this  reception,  fell  into 
Pauline's  arms.  The  latter  had  again  turned  pale.  And 
now,  when  she  felt  this  woman,  so  soon  to  be  a  mother,  press- 
ing against  her,  both  horror  and  pity  came  upon  her.  However, 
she  succeeded  in  conquering  her  jealousy  and  in  silencing 
Lazare. 

'  Why  do  you  speak  to  her  so  unkindly  ?  Kiss  her  !  You 
did  quite  right  to  come,  my  dear,  if  you  thought  you  would 
be  better  at  Bonneville.  You  know  very  well  that  we  all  love 
you,  don't  you  ?  ' 

Loulou  was  barking  furiously  at  all  the  hubbub  which 
disturbed  the  usual  quiet  of  the  yard.  Minouche,  having 
poked  her  head  out  of  the  door,  had  retired  again,  shaking 
her  feet  as  though  she  had  just  escaped  mixing  herself  up 
in  some  compromising  incident.  The  whole  party  went  into 
the  house,  and  Veronique  laid  another  cover  at  the  table 
and  began  to  serve  the  dinner  over  again. 

'  Hallo  !  is  it  really  you,  Louisette  ? '  Chanteau  exclaimed, 
with  an  uneasy  smile.  '  You  wanted  to  take  us  by  surprise  ? 
You  have  almost  made  my  wine  go  the  wrong  way  ! ' 

However,  the  evening  passed  off  pleasantly.  They 
had  all  regained  their  self-possession,  and  avoided  making 
any  reference  to  the  immediate  future.  There  was  a 
momentary  revival  of  embarrassment  at  bedtime,  when 
Veronique  inquired  if  Monsieur  Lazare  was  going  to  sleep  in 
his  wife's  room. 

'  Oh  no !  Louise  will  sleep  better  alone,'  Lazare  replied, 
looking  up  instinctively  and  catching  Pauline's  glance. 

1  Yes,  that  will  be  better,'  said  the  young  wife  ;  '  sleep  at 
the  top  of  the  house,  for  I'm  dreadfully  tired,  and  like  that  I 
shall  have  the  whole  bed  to  myself.' 

Three  days  passed.  Then  Pauline  at  last  came  to  a 
determination.  She  would  leave  the  house  on  the  following 
Monday.  Lazare  and  Louise  had  already  begun  to  talk  of 
remaining  till  after  the  birth  of  the  expected  baby,  and 
Pauline  thought  she  could  see  that  her  cousin  had  had  enough 
of  Paris,  and  would  settle  down  altogether  at  Bonneville, 
weary  and  sick  of  his  perpetual  failures.  The  best  thing  she 
could  do,  therefore,  was  to  give  the  place  up  to  them  at  once, 
for  she  had  not  been  able  to  conquer  herself,  and  she  more 
than  ever  lacked  the  courage  to  live  beside  them  and  witness 
all  the  intimacy  of  man  and  wife.  Besides,  this  course 
seemed  the  best  means  of  escaping  from  all  the  perils 


28o  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

threatened  by  the  reviving  passion  from  which  she  and  Lazare 
had  just  suffered  so  cruelly.  Louise  alone  expressed  some 
astonishment  on  learning  Pauline's  decision,  but  she  was 
supplied  with  undeniable  reasons  for  it.  Doctor  Cazenove 
told  her  that  his  relation  at  Saint-L6  had  made  Pauline 
unusually  favourable  offers,  that  the  girl  could  not  really 
refuse  them  any  longer,  and  that  her  friends  must  insist 
upon  her  accepting  a  position  which  would  make  her  future 
safe.  Chanteau,  too,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  expressed  his 
consent. 

On  the  Saturday  came  a  farewell  dinner,  with  the  priest 
and  the  Doctor.  Louise,  who  suffered  greatly,  could  scarcely 
drag  herself  to  the  table,  and  this  threw  additional  gloom 
over  the  meal,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Pauline,  who  had 
cheerful  smiles  for  everyone,  though  in  reality  she  grieved 
bitterly  at  the  thought  of  leaving  that  house,  which  she  had 
animated  and  brightened  for  so  many  years  with  her  ringing 
laughter.  Her  heart  was  aching  with  pain,  and  Ve"ronique 
served  the  dinner  with  a  tragic  air.  Chanteau  refused  to 
touch  a  single  drop  of  Burgundy,  having  become  all  at  once 
almost  superfluously  prudent,  for  he  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  being  so  soon  deprived  of  a  nurse  whose  mere  voice  seemed 
able  to  lull  his  pains.  Lazare,  for  his  part,  was  feverish,  and 
wrangled  with  the  Doctor  about  a  new  scientific  discovery. 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  house  had  once  more  subsided  into 
silence.  Louise  and  Chanteau  were  already  asleep,  while 
Ve"ronique  was  tidying  up  her  kitchen.  Then,  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  by  the  door  of  his  old  room,  which  he  still  occu- 
pied, Lazare  detained  Pauline  for  a  moment,  according  to  his 
wont. 

'  Good-bye ! '  he  murmured. 

'  No  1  not  good-bye,'  she  said,  forcing  herself  to  smile. 
'  Au  revoir,  since  I  am  not  going  away  till  Monday.' 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  and  as  then:  eyes  grew  dim 
they  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  while  their  lips  met  passion- 
ately in  a  last  kiss. 


X 

THE  next  morning,  as  they  sat  down  to  their  coffee  at  the 
early  breakfast,  they  were  surprised  that  Louise  did  not  make 
her  appearance.  The  servant  went  upstairs  to  knock  at  her 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  281 

door,  and  when  the  young  woman  at  last  came  down  it  was 
evident  that  she  waa  in  a  state  of  great  suffering.  She 
took  but  a  few  sips  of  coffee ;  and  all  the  morning  she  dragged 
herself  about  the  house,  rising  from  one  chair  to  go  and  sit 
down  upon  another.  They  did  not  venture  to  speak  to  her, 
for  she  grew  irritable  and  seemed  to  suffer  the  more  when 
any  notice  was  taken  of  her.  She  experienced  no  relief  until 
a  little  before  noon,  when  she  was  able  to  sit  down  at  the 
table  again  and  take  some  soup.  Between  two  and  three 
o'clock,  however,  she  was  again  unable  to  remain  still,  and 
dragged  herself  about  between  the  dining-room  and  the 
kitchen,  finally  going,  with  great  difficulty,  upstairs,  but  only 
to  come  down  again  immediately. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  Pauline  was  now  packing  her 
trunk.  She  was  to  leave  Bonneville  the  next  morning,  and 
she  had  only  the  needful  time  to  empty  her  drawers  and  get 
everything  ready  for  departure ;  nevertheless,  she  every 
minute  went  out  on  to  the  landing  and  looked  over  the  banis- 
ters, distressed  by  the  other's  evident  suffering.  About  four 
o'clock,  as  she  heard  Louise  becoming  still  more  agitated, 
she  resolved  to  speak  to  Lazare,  who  had  locked  himself  up 
in  his  room,  full  of  nervous  exasperation  at  the  troubles  with 
which  he  accused  Fate  of  overwhelming  him. 

'  We  cannot  leave  Louise  like  this,'  insisted  Pauline. 
1  We  must  go  and  talk  to  her.  Come  with  me.' 

They  found  her  half-way  on  the  first  flight  of  stairs, 
lacking  the  strength  to  go  either  up  or  down. 

'  My  dear  girl,'  said  Pauline  tenderly,  '  we  are  quite 
distressed  about  you.  We  are  going  to  send  for  Madame 
Bouland.' 

At  this  Louise  grew  angry.  '  Why  do  you  torment  me 
like  this,'  she  cried,  'when  all  that  I  want  is  to  be  left 
alone  ?  I  shan't  need  Madame  Bouland  for  a  long  time  yet. 
Leave  me  alone  and  don't  torture  me ! ' 

Louise  showed  herself  so  obstinate  and  displayed  so  much 
temper  that  Lazare,  in  his  turn,  grew  angry;  however, 
Pauline  was  compelled  to  promise  that  she  would  not  send 
for  Madame  Bouland.  This  person  was  an  accoucheuse  of 
Verchemont,  who  possessed  an  extraordinary  reputation 
throughout  the  district  for  skill  and  energy.  She  was  con- 
sidered to  have  no  equal  at  Bayeux  or  even  at  Caen.  It  was 
on  account  of  this  great  reputation  of  hers  that  Louise,  who 
was  very  timid  and  had  a  presentiment  of  disaster,  had 


282  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

resolved  to  place  herself  in  her  hands.  None  the  less  she 
experienced  a  great  fear  of  Madame  Bouland — the  same 
irrational  fear,  indeed,  with  which  patients  contemplate  a 
dentist  whom  it  is  necessary  they  should  visit,  though  they 
defer  doing  so  as  long  as  possible. 

At  six  o'clock  Louise  felt  much  better  again,  and  showed 
herself  very  triumphant  in  consequence.  But  she  was  worn 
out,  and,  when  she  had  eaten  a  cutlet,  she  went  back  to  her 
room.  She  would  be  all  right,  she  said,  if  she  could  only 
get  to  sleep.  Thus  she  obstinately  refused  to  let  anyone  sit 
upstairs  with  her,  and  insisted  upon  being  left  alone.  The 
others  then  sat  down  to  a  stew  and  a  piece  of  roast  veal. 
The  dinner  began  in  silence,  for  Louise's  illness  increased 
the  gloom  which  was  caused  by  Pauline's  approaching  depar- 
ture. They  made  as  little  noise  as  possible  with  their  spoons 
and  forks,  for  fear  it  might  reach  the  ears  of  the  invalid  and 
still  further  distress  her.  Chanteau,  however,  grew  very 
loquacious  by  degrees,  and  had  begun  relating  some  wonder- 
ful stories,  when  V6ronique,  as  she  was  handing  round  the 
veal,  suddenly  exclaimed : 

'I'm  not  quite  sure,  but  I  fancy  I  can  hear  Madame 
Lazare  groaning  upstairs.' 

Lazare  sprang  from  his  seat  and  opened  the  door.  They 
all  gave  over  eating,  and  strained  their  ears  to  listen.  At 
first  they  could  hear  nothing,  but  soon  the  sound  of  pro- 
longed groaning  reached  them. 

Pauline  thereupon  threw  down  her  napkin  and  ran  up- 
stairs, followed  by  Lazare.  And  now  Louise,  whom  they 
found  seated  on  her  bed  in  a  dressing-gown,  rather  peevishly 
consented  to  let  them  send  for  Madame  Bouland.  When 
Lazare,  however,  suggested  that  they  had  better  send  for 
Doctor  Cazenpve  as  well,  on  the  chance  of  complications 
arising,  his  wife  burst  into  tears.  Hadn't  they  the  least  pity 
for  her,  she  cried  ?  Why  did  they  go  on  torturing  her  ? 
They  knew  very  well  that  the  idea  of  being  attended  by  a 
doctor  was  intolerable  to  her.  She  would  have  nobody  but 
Madame  Bouland. 

'  If  you  send  for  the  Doctor,'  said  she,  '  I'll  get  into  bed 
and  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  and  refuse  to  say  another  word 
to  anybody.' 

'  At  any  rate,  go  for  Madame  Bouland,'  said  Pauline  to 
Lazare  by  way  of  conclusion.  '  She  may  be  able  to  give  her 
some  relief.' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  283 

They  both  went  downstairs  again,  and  found  Abbe 
Horteur,  who  had  come  to  pay  a  short  visit,  standing  in 
silence  before  the  alarmed  Chanteau.  An  attempt  was  made 
to  persuade  Lazare  to  eat  a  little  veal  before  starting,  but  he 
declared  that  a  single  mouthful  would  choke  him,  and  forth- 
with he  set  off  at  a  run  to  Verchemont. 

'  I  think  I  hear  her  calling  me !  '  Pauline  exclaimed  a 
moment  later,  hastening  towards  the  staircase.  '  If  I  want 
Veronique  I  will  knock  on  the  floor.  You  can  finish  your 
dinner  without  me,  can't  you,  uncle  ?  ' 

The  priest,  much  embarrassed  at  finding  himself  in  the 
midst  of  this  confusion,  could  not  summon  up  his  customary 
consolatory  phrases,  and  he  also  soon  retired,  promising, 
however  to  return  after  he  had  been  to  the  Gonins',  where 
the  crippled  old  man  was  very  ill.  Thus  Chanteau  was  left 
alone  before  the  disordered  table.  The  glasses  were  half  full, 
the  veal  was  growing  cold  on  the  plates,  and  the  greasy  forks 
and  half-eaten  pieces  of  bread  still  lay  where  they  had  been 
dropped  in  the  sudden  alarm  which  had  come  upon  the 
diners.  As  Veronique  put  a  kettle  of  water  on  the  fire,  by 
way  of  precaution,  in  case  it  might  be  wanted,  she  began  to 
grumble  at  not  knowing  whether  she  ought  to  clear  the  table 
or  leave  things  in  their  present  state  of  confusion. 

Two  anxious  hours  went  by;  nine  o'clock  came,  and  still 
Madame  Bouland  did  not  arrive.  Louise  was  now  anxiously 
longing  for  her  to  come,  and  bitterly  complained  that  they 
must  want  her  to  die,  since  they  left  her  so  long  without 
assistance.  It  only  took  twenty-five  minutes  to  get  to 
Verchemont,  and  an  hour  ought  to  have  been  sufficient  to 
fetch  the  woman.  Lazare  must  be  amusing  himself  some- 
where, or,  perhaps,  an  accident  had  happened,  and  no 
one  would  ever  come  at  all.  Then,  however,  the  young 
wife  ceased  complaining,  for  an  attack  of  sickness  came 
upon  her,  and  the  whole  house  was  once  more  in  a  state  of 
alarm. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck,  and  the  delay  became  intolerable. 
So  Veronique  in  her  turn  set  off  for  Verchemont.  She  took  a 
lantern  with  her,  and  was  instructed  to  search  all  the  ditches. 
Meantime  Pauline  remained  with  Louise,  unable  to  assist  her 
in  spite  of  her  desire  to  do  so. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  sound  of  wheels  at  last 
impelled  the  girl  to  rush  downstairs. 

'  Why,  where  is  Veronique  ?  '  she  cried  out  from  the  steps, 


284  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

as  she  recognised  Lazare  and  Madame  Bouland.  '  Haven't 
you  met  her  ? ' 

Lazare  replied  that  they  had  come  by  the  Port-en-Bessin 
road,  after  encountering  all  sorts  of  hindrances.  On  reach- 
ing Verchemont  he  had  found  that  Madame  Bouland  was 
eight  miles  away  attending  to  another  woman.  He  could 
procure  no  horse  or  vehicle  to  go  after  her,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  make  the  whole  journey  on  foot,  running  all  the 
way.  And,  besides,  there  had  been  endless  other  troubles. 
Fortunately,  however,  Madame  Bouland  had  a  trap  with  her. 

'  But  the  woman !  '  exclaimed  Pauline.  '  She  has  been 
attended  to  all  right,  I  suppose,  since  Madame  Bouland  has 
been  able  to  come  with  you  ?  ' 

Lazare's  voice  trembled  as  he  replied  hoarsely  : 

'  The  woman  is  dead.' 

They  went  into  the  hall,  which  was  dimly  lighted  by  a 
candle  placed  on  the  stairs.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence 
while  Madame  Bouland  hung  up  her  cloak.  She  was  a  short, 
dark  woman,  very  thin,  and  as  yellow  as  a  lemon,  with  a 
large  prominent  nose.  She  spoke  loudly,  and  had  an 
extremely  authoritative  manner,  which  caused  her  to  be 
much  respected  by  the  peasantry. 

'  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  follow  me  ? '  Pauline  said  to 
her.  '  I  have  been  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  ;  she 
has  never  ceased  complaining  since  the  beginning  of  the 
evening.' 

Louise  still  stood  before  a  chest  of  drawers  in  her  room, 
pawing  the  floor  with  her  feet.  She  burst  into  tears  as  soon 
as  she  saw  Madame  Bouland,  who  forthwith  began  to  ques- 
tion her.  But  the  young  wife  turned  a  glance  of  entreaty 
towards  Pauline,  which  the  latter  well  understood.  She 
therefore  led  Lazare  from  the  room,  and  they  both  remained 
on  the  landing,  unable  to  take  themselves  further  away.  The 
candle,  which  was  still  burning  below,  threw  a  dim  light, 
broken  by  weird  shadows,  up  the  stairs,  and  the  two  cousins 
stood,  Lazare  leaning  against  the  wall  and  Pauline  against 
the  banisters,  gazing  at  each  other  in  motionless  silence. 
They  strained  their  ears  to  catch  the  sounds  that  came  from 
Louise's  room ;  and  when  Madame  Bouland  at  last  opened 
the  door  they  would  have  entered,  but  she  pushed  them 
back,  came  out,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

'  Well  ? '  Pauline  murmured. 

She  signed  to  them  to  go  downstairs,  and  it  was  not  till 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  285 

they  had  reached  the  ground  floor  that  she  opened  her  mouth. 
It  was  a  premature  and  very  difficult  case. 

'  It  seems  likely  to  be  extremely  serious,'  she  said.  '  It  is 
my  duty  to  warn  the  family.' 

Lazare  turned  pale.  An  icy  breath  passed  over  his  brow. 
Then  in  stammering  accents  he  asked  for  particulars. 

Madame  Boulandgave  them,  adding  :  '  I  cannot  undertake 
the  responsibility.  The  presence  of  a  doctor  is  absolutely 
necessary.' 

Silence  fell  once  more.  Lazare  was  overcome  with 
despair.  Where  were  they  to  find  a  doctor  at  that  time  of 
night  ?  His  wife  might  die  twenty  times  before  they  could 
get  the  surgeon  from  Arromanches. 

'I  don't  think  there  is  any  immediate  danger,'  said 
Madame  Bouland ;  '  still,  you  had  better  lose  no  time.  I 
myself  can  do  nothing  further.' 

And  as  Pauline  besought  her,  in  the  name  of  humanity, 
to  try  something,  at  any  rate,  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of 
Louise,  whose  groans  echoed  through  the  house,  she  replied 
in  her  clear  sharp  voice  :  '  No,  indeed ;  I  can  do  nothing  of 
that  kind.  That  other  poor  woman  over  yonder  is  dead,  and 
I  would  rather  not  be  responsible  for  this  one.' 

Again  did  Lazare  shudder.  At  this  moment,  however, 
a  tearful  call  was  heard  from  Chanteau  in  the  dining-room. 

'  Are  you  there  ?  Come  in !  No  one  has  been  to  tell  me 
anything.  I  have  been  waiting  to  hear  something  ever  so 
long.' 

They  entered  the  room.  They  had  forgotten  all  about 
poor  Chanteau  since  the  interrupted  dinner.  He  had 
remained  at  the  table,  twisting  his  thumbs  and  patiently 
waiting  with  all  the  drowsy  resignation  which  he  had 
acquired  during  his  long  periods  of  lonely  quiescence.  This 
new  catastrophe,  which  was  revolutionising  the  house,  had 
greatly  saddened  him ;  he  had  not  even  had  heart  enough 
to  go  on  eating,  his  food  still  remained  untouched  on  his 
plate. 

'  Is  she  no  better  ? '  he  inquired. 

Lazare  ragefully  shrugged  his  shoulders.  But  Madame 
Bouland,  who  retained  all  her  accustomed  calmness,  pressed 
the  young  man  to  lose  no  further  time. 

1  Take  my  trap  ! '  she  said.  '  The  horse  is  tired  out ;  still, 
you  will  be  able  to  get  back  in  two  hours  or  two  hours  and  a 
half.  I  will  stay  here  and  look  after  her.' 


286  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Then  with  sudden  determination  Lazare  rushed  out  of 
the  room,  feeling  convinced  that  he  would  find  his  wife  dead 
upon  his  return.  They  could  hear  him  shouting  and  lashing 
the  horse  with  his  whip  as  the  conveyance  clattered  noisily 
away. 

Madame  Bouland  went  upstairs  again,  and  Pauline 
followed  her,  after  briefly  replying  to  her  uncle's  questions. 
When  she  had  offered  to  put  him  to  bed  he  had  refused  to 
go,  insisting  on  staying  up  in  order  that  he  might  know  how 
things  went  on.  If  he  felt  drowsy,  he  said,  he  could  sleep 
very  well  in  his  easy-chair,  for  he  often  slept  in  it  the  whole 
afternoon.  He  had  only  just  been  left  alone  again  when 
Ve"ronique  returned  with  her  lantern  extinguished.  She  was 
boiling  over  with  rage.  For  two  years  she  had  never  poured 
forth  so  many  words  at  one  time. 

'  Of  course  they  took  the  other  road ! '  she  cried.  '  And 
there  have  I  been  looking  into  all  the  ditches  and  nearly  kill- 
ing myself  to  get  to  Verchemont !  And  I  waited,  too,  for  a 
whole  half -hour  down  there  in  the  middle  of  the  road ! ' 

Chanteau  looked  at  her  with  his  big  eyes. 

'  Well,  my  girl,  it  was  scarcely  likely  that  you  would  meet 
each  other.' 

'  And  then,  as  I  was  coming  back,'  she  continued, '  I  met 
Monsieur  Lazare  galloping  on  like  a  madman  in  a  crazy  gig. 
I  shouted  out  to  him  that  they  were  anxiously  waiting  for 
him,  but  he  only  whipped  his  horse  the  more  violently  and 
nearly  ran  over  me.  I've  had  quite  enough  of  these  errands,  of 
which  I  can  make  neither  head  nor  tale.  To  make  matters 
worse,  too,  my  lantern  went  out." 

She  hustled  her  master  about,  and  tried  to  make  him  finish 
eating  his  food,  so  that  she  might,  at  any  rate,  get  the  table 
cleared.  He  was  not  at  all  hungry,  but  he  ate  a  little  of  the 
cold  veal  for  the  sake  of  doing  something.  He  was  worried 
now  by  the  Abbess  failure  to  return  that  evening.  What  was 
the  use  of  the  priest  promising  to  come  and  keep  him  com- 
pany if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  at  home  ?  However, 
priests  certainly  cut  a  comical  figure  on  such  occasions  as  the 
present ;  and,  this  idea  amusing  Chanteau,  he  set  himself 
cheerfully  to  take  his  supper  in  solitude. 

'  Come,  sir,  make  haste ! '  cried  Veronique.  '  It  is  nearly 
one  o'clock,  and  it  won't  do  to  have  the  plates  and  dishes  and 
things  lying  about  like  this  till  to-morrow.  There's  always 
something  going  wrong  in  this  awful  house  !  ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  287 

She  was  just  beginning  to  clear  the  table  when  Pauline 
called  to  her  from  the  staircase.  Then  Chanteau  was  once 
more  left  alone  and  forgotten  in  front  of  the  table,  and  nobody 
came  again  to  give  him  any  news. 

Louise  was  in  quite  a  desperate  condition,  and  her 
strength  seemed  to  be  rapidly  ebbing  away,  when,  about  half- 
past  three  o'clock,  V6ronique  privately  warned  Pauline  of 
Lazare's  arrival  with  Doctor  Cazenove.  Madame  Bouland 
insisted  on  remaining  alone  with  the  Doctor  beside  the  patient, 
while  the  others  betook  themselves  to  the  dining-room,  where 
Chanteau  was  now  fast  asleep.  And  then  there  again  came 
a  long,  weary,  and  very  anxious  wait.  When  the  Doctor 
joined  them  his  voice  betrayed  his  emotion, 

'  I  have  done  nothing  yet,'  said  he ;  '  I  wouldn't  do  any- 
thing without  consulting  you.' 

And  thereupon  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  as  if 
to  drive  away  some  irksome  thought. 

'  But  it  is  not  for  us  to  decide,  Doctor,'  said  Pauline,  for 
Lazare  was  incapable  of  speech  ;  'we  leave  her  in  your 
hands.' 

He  shook  his  head.  '  I  must  tell  you,'  said  he, '  that  both 
mother  and  child  seem  to  me  lost.  Perhaps  I  might  save 
one  or  the  other.' 

Lazare  and  Pauline  rose  up  shuddering.  Chanteau, 
aroused  by  the  conversation,  opened  his  heavy  eyes  and 
listened  with  an  expression  of  amazement. 

'  Which  of  the  two  must  I  try  to  save  ? '  repeated  the 
Doctor,  who  trembled  as  much  as  those  of  whom  he  asked  the 
question — '  the  child  or  the  mother  ? ' 

'  Which,  0  God  ? '  cried  Lazare.  '  Do  I  know  ?  Can  I 
say?' 

Tears  choked  him  once  again,  whilst  his  cousin,  ghastly 
pale,  remained  silent  in  presence  of  that  awful  alternative. 

But  Cazenove  went  on  giving  explanations.  'It  is  a 
case  of  conscience,'  he  concluded.  'I  beg  of  you,  decide 
yourselves.' 

Sobs  now  prevented  Lazare  from  answering.  He  had 
taken  his  handkerchief  and  was  twisting  it  convulsively 
whilst  striving  to  recover  a  little  of  his  reason.  Chanteau 
still  looked  on  in  stupefaction.  And  only  Pauline  was  able 
to  say,  '  Why  did  you  come  down  ?  It  is  cruel  to  torture 
us  like  this,  when  you  alone  know  the  best  course,  and  alone 
are  able  to  act.' 


288  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Just  then  Madame  Bouland  herself  descended  the  stairs 
to  say  that  matters  were  becoming  much  worse.  '  Have  you 
decided  ?  '  she  inquired.  '  The  lady  is  sinking.' 

Thereupon,  with  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  which 
disconcerted  people,  Cazenove  threw  his  arms  about  Lazare, 
kissed  him,  and  exclaimed :  '  Listen,  I  will  try  to  save  them 
both.  .  .  .  And  if  they  succumb — well,  I  shall  be  yet  more 
grieved  than  yourself,  for  I  shall  take  it  to  be  my  own  fault.' 

Excepting  Chanteau,  who  in  his  turn  embraced  his  son, 
they  all  went  upstairs  together.  Cazenove  desired  it.  Louise 
was  fully  conscious,  but  very  low.  She  offered  no  objection 
to  a  doctor  now ;  her  sufferings  were  too  great.  When  he 
began  to  speak  to  her  she  simply  answered :  '  Kill  me ;  kill  me 
at  once.' 

There  came  a  cruel  and  affecting  scene.  It  was  one  of 
those  dread  hours  when  life  and  death  wrestle  together,  when 
human  science  and  skill  battle  to  overcome  and  correct  the 
errors  of  Nature.  More  than  once  did  the  Doctor  pause, 
fearing  a  fatal  issue.  The  patient's  agony  was  terrible,  but 
at  last  science  triumphed,  and  a  child  was  born.  It  was  a 
boy. 

Lazare,  who  had  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  was  sobbing, 
and  burst  out  into  tears.  He  had  been  a  prey  to  the  keenest 
mental  torture  during  the  progress  of  the  operations,  and  he 
thought  despairingly  that  it  would  be  preferable  for  them  all 
to  die  rather  than  to  continue  living  if  such  intense  agony 
was  to  be  mingled  with  life. 

But  Pauline  bent  over  Louise  and  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head. 

'  Come  and  kiss  her  I '  she  said  to  her  cousin. 

He  came  and  stooped  down  over  his  wife ;  but  he  shud- 
dered when  his  lips  touched  her  brow,  which  was  moist  with 
icy  perspiration.  Louise  lay  there  with  her  eyes  closed, 
and  seemed  to  be  no  longer  breathing.  Lazare  leaned  against 
the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  trying  to  stifle  his  sobs. 

'  I  am  afraid  the  child  is  dead,'  said  the  Doctor. 

The  baby,  indeed,  had  given  utterance  to  none  of  the  usual 
shrill  calls.  It  was  a  very  small  infant  of  a  deathly  hue. 

'  We  might  try  the  effect  of  friction  and  inflation,'  the 
Doctor  continued ;  '  but  I'm  afraid  it  would  only  be  time 
wasted.  And  the  mother  stands  in  need  of  all  my  attention.' 

Pauline  heard  him. 

'  Give  me  the  child  I '  she  exclaimed.     '  I  will  try  what  I 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  289 

can  do.  If  I  don't  manage  to  make  it  breathe,  it  will  be  that 
I  have  no  more  breath  left  myself.'  Thereupon  she  carried 
the  infant  into  the  next  room,  the  room  which  had  once  been 
Madame  Chanteau's,  taking  with  her  a  bottle  of  brandy  and 
some  flannel.  She  laid  the  poor  wee  creature  in  an  arm-chair 
before  a  blazing  fire ;  and  then,  having  steeped  a  piece  of 
flannel  in  a  saucer  of  brandy,  she  knelt  down  and  rubbed  it 
without  a  pause,  quite  regardless  of  the  cramp  that  gradually 
stiffened  her  arm.  It  was  so  small  a  child,  and  looked  so 
wretched  and  fragile,  that  she  feared  lest  she  might  kill  it  by 
rubbing  it  too  hard.  And  so  she  passed  the  flannel  back- 
wards and  forwards  with  a  gentle,  almost  caressing  motion, 
like  the  constant  brushing  of  a  bird  s  wing.  Then  she  turned 
the  child  over,  and  tried  to  recall  each  of  its  tiny  limbs  to  life. 
But  it  still  lay  there  motionless.  Though  the  friction  seemed 
to  impart  a  little  warmth,  the  infant's  chest  remained 
shrunken,  uninflated,  and  it  even  seemed  to  grow  darker  in 
colour. 

Then,  without  evincing  any  repugnance,  Pauline  pressed 
her  mouth  to  its  tiny,  rigid  Hps,  and  drawing  long,  slow 
breaths  she  strove  to  adapt  the  force  of  her  lungs  to  the 
capacity  of  those  little  compressed  organs  into  which  the  air 
had  been  unable  to  make  its  way.  She  was  obliged  to  stop 
every  now  and  then,  when  her  breath  grew  exhausted ;  but, 
after  inhaling  a  fresh  supply,  she  turned  to  her  task  again. 
Her  blood  mounted  to  her  head,  and  her  ears  began  to  buzz  ; 
she  even  became  a  little  giddy.  Nevertheless  she  still  perse- 
vered, striving  to  inflate  the  baby's  lungs  for  more  than  half 
an  hour,  without  being  encouraged  by  the  least  result.  She 
vainly  tried  to  make  the  ribs  play  by  pressing  them  very 
gently  with  her  fingers.  But  nothing  seemed  to  do  the  least 
good,  and  anyone  else  would  have  abandoned  in  despair  this 
apparently  impossible  resurrection.  Pauline,  however,  brought 
maternal  perseverance  to  her  task,  the  obstinate  insistence  of 
a  mother  who  is  determined  that  her  child  shall  live,  and  at 
last  she  felt  that  the  poor  wee  body  was  stirring,  that  its  tiny 
lips  moved  slightly  beneath  her  own. 

For  nearly  an  hour  she  had  remained  alone  in  that 
room,  absorbed  in  the  anguish  of  that  struggle  with  death, 
and  forgetful  of  all  else.  That  faint  sign  of  life,  that 
transitory  tremor  of  the  little  lips,  filled  her  with  fresh 
courage.  She  had  recourse  to  friction  again,  and  every  other 
minute  she  resumed  her  attempt  at  inflation,  employing  the 

u 


290  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

two  processes  alternately  without  any  regard  for  her  own 
exhaustion.  She  felt  a  growing  craving  to  conquer  and  pro- 
duce life.  For  a  moment  she  feared  she  had  been  mistaken, 
for  it  again  seemed  that  her  lips  were  only  pressing  lifeless 
ones.  But  she  became  conscious  of  another  rapid  con- 
traction. Little  by  little  the  air  was  forcing  its  way  into  the 
child's  lungs ;  she  could  feel  it  being  sucked  from  her  and 
returned,  and  she  even  fancied  she  could  detect  the  litttle 
heart  beginning  to  beat.  Her  mouth  never  left  the  tiny 
lips ;  she  shared  her  life  with  that  little  creature ;  they  had 
only  one  breath  between  them  in  that  wonderful  resurrection, 
a  slow,  continuous  exchange  of  breath  going  from  one  to  the 
other  as  if  they  had  a  common  soul.  Pauline's  lips  were 
soiled,  for  the  child  had  scarcely  been  cleansed,  but  her 
joy  at  having  saved  it  prevented  any  feeling  of  disgust.  She 
began  to  inhale  a  warm  pungency  of  life,  which  intoxi- 
cated her  ;  and  when,  at  last,  the  baby  broke  out  into  a 
feeble,  plaintive  wail,  she  fell  back  from  the  chair  on  to  the 
floor,  stirred  to  the  depths  of  her  being. 

The  big  fire  was  blazing  brightly,  filling  the  room  with 
cheerful  light.  Pauline  remained  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
baby,  whom  she  had  not  yet  examined.  What  a  poor,  frail 
mite  it  was  !  All  her  own  robust  vigour  rose  up  in  rebellious 
protest  as  she  thought  what  a  wretched  puny  son  Louise  had 
given  to  Lazare.  She  felt  keen  regret  for  her  own  wasted 
life.  She  herself  would  never  be  a  mother!  She  was  young 
and  strong,  and  healthy  and  beautiful,  but  of  what  avail  was 
all  that  ?  The  fulness  of  life  was  not  for  her.  And  she  wept 
for  the  child  that  she  would  never  have. 

Meantime  the  poor,  frail  little  creature  that  she  had 
revived  to  existence  was  still  wailing  and  writhing  on  the 
chair,  and  Pauline  began  to  fear  that  it  might  fall  upon  the 
floor.  Her  pity  was  aroused  at  the  sight  of  such  uncomeli- 
ness  and  weakness.  She  would  at  least  do  what  she  could  for 
it ;  she  would  help  it  to  continue  living,  as  she  had  had  the 
happiness  of  helping  it  into  life.  So  she  took  it  upon  her 
knees  and  did  what  she  could  for  it,  while  still  shedding 
tears,  in  which  were  mingled  sorrow  for  her  own  lonesome 
fate  and  pity  for  the  misery  of  all  living  creatures. 

Madame  Bouland,  whom  she  called,  came  to  help  her  to 
wash  the  baby.  They  wrapped  it  in  warm  flannels  and 
then  laid  it  in  the  bed,  till  the  cradle  should  be  prepared  for 
it.  Madame  Bouland  was  astonished  to  find  it  alive,  and 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  291 

examined  it  carefully.  It  seemed  well  formed,  she  said, 
but  its  frailty  would  make  it  difficult  to  rear.  Then  she 
hurried  off  again  to  Louise,  who  still  remained  in  a  very  critical 
condition. 

As  Pauline  was  again  taking  up  her  position  at  the  baby's 
side  Lazare,  who  had  been  informed  of  the  miracle  his 
cousin  had  accomplished,  entered  the  room. 

'  Come  and  look  at  him ! '  said  Pauline,  with  much 
emotion.  But  as  he  drew  near  he  began  to  tremble,  and 
exclaimed : 

1  What !  you  have  laid  him  in  that  bed  ! ' 

He  had  shuddered  as  he  entered.  That  room,  so  long 
unused,  so  full  of  mournful  associations  and  so  rarely  entered, 
was  now  warm  and  bright,  enlivened  by  the  crackling  of  the 
fire.  Each  article  of  furniture  was  still  in  its  accustomed 
position,  and  the  clock  still  marked  twenty- three  minutes  to 
eight.  No  one  had  occupied  that  chamber,  now  prepared  for 
Madame  Bouland,  since  his  mother  had  died  there.  And  it 
was  in  that  very  bed  where  she  had  passed  away — in  that 
sacred,  awful  bed — that  he  saw  his  own  son  restored  to  life, 
looking  so  tiny  as  he  lay  among  the  spreading  coverings. 

'  Does  it  displease  you  ? '  Pauline  asked  in  surprise. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  speak  for  emotion.  At 
last  he  stammered : 

'  I  was  thinking  of  mamma.  She  has  gone,  and  now  here 
is  another  who  will  go  away  as  she  went.  Why,  then,  did 
he  come  ? ' 

His  words  were  cut  short  by  a  burst  of  sobbing.  His 
terror  and  his  disgust  of  life  broke  out  in  spite  of  all  ^  the 
efforts  he  had  made  to  restrain  himself  since  Louise's 
terrible  delivery.  When  he  had  touched  his  baby's  brow 
with  his  lips,  he  hastily  stepped  back,  for  he  had  fancied 
that  he  could  feel  the  infant's  skull  giving  way  beneath  his 
touch.  He  was  filled  with  remorseful  despondency  at  the 
sight  of  the  poor,  frail  little  thing. 

'  Don't  distress  yourself ! '  said  Pauline,  by  way  of 
cheering  him.  '  We'll  make  a  fine  young  fellow  of  him. 
It  doesn't  at  all  matter  that  he  is  small  now.' 

He  looked  at  her,  and,  utterly  upset  as  he  was,  a  full 
confession  escaped  from  his  heart : 

'  It  is  again  to  you  that  we  owe  his  life !  Am  I  des- 
tined, then,  to  be  always  under  obligations  to  you  ? ' 

•To  me  I'  she  exclaimed.     '  I  have  done  nothing  more 

u2 


292  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

than  Madame  Bouland  would  have  done  if  I  hadn't  happened 
to  be  here.' 

He  silenced  her  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

'  Do  you  think,'  he  said,  '  that  I  am  so  base  that  I  cannot 
understand  that  I  owe  everything  to  you  ?  Ever  since  you 
first  came  into  this  house  you  have  never  ceased  to 
sacrifice  yourself.  I  will  say  nothing  now  about  your 
money,  but  you  still  loved  me  yourself  when  you  gave  me 
to  Louise.  I  know  it  now  quite  well.  Ah  !  if  you  only 
knew  the  shame  I  feel  when  I  look  at  you  and  recollect ! 
You  would  have  given  your  very  life-blood,  you  were  always 
kind  and  cheerful,  even  at  the  very  time  when  I  was 
crushing  down  your  heart.  Ah,  yes !  you  were  right ; 
cheerfulness  and  kindliness  are  everything ;  all  else  is  mere 
delusion ! ' 

She  tried  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  continued  in  a 
louder  voice : 

'  What  a  fool  I  made  of  myself  with  all  my  disbelief 
and  boasting,  and  all  the  pessimism  which  I  paraded  out 
of  vanity  and  fear!  It  was  I  who  spoilt  our  lives — yours 
and  my  own,  and  those  of  the  whole  family.  Yes  !  you  were 
the  only  sensible  one  amongst  us  1  Life  becomes  so  easy  when 
everyone  in  a  family  is  cheerful  and  affectionate,  and  each 
lives  for  the  others.  If  the  world  is  to  die  of  misery,  at  any 
rate  let  it  die  cheerfully,  and  in  sympathy  with  itself ! ' 

Pauline  smiled  at  the  violence  of  his  language,  and 
caught  hold  of  his  hands. 

'  Come !  come  ! '  she  said,  '  don't  excite  yourself !  Now 
that  you  see  I  was  right,  you  are  cured,  and  all  will  go 
well.' 

'  Ah !  I  don't  know  that !  I  am  talking  like  this  just  now, 
because  there  are  times  when  the  truth  will  force  itself  out, 
even  in  spite  of  one's  self.  But  to-morrow  I  shall  slip  back 
into  all  my  old  torment.  One  can't  change  one's  nature ! 
No,  no !  Things  will  go  no  better.  On  the  contrary,  they 
will  gradually  get  worse  and  worse.  You  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do.  It  is  my  own  stupidity  that  enrages  me.' 

She  drew  him  gently  towards  her,  and  said  to  him  in 
her  grave  way  : 

'  You  are  neither  foolish  nor  base  ;  you  are  unfortunate. 
Kiss  me,  Lazare.' 

They  exchanged  a  kiss  before  that  poor  little  babe,  who 
seemed  to  be  asleep.  It  was  the  kiss  of  brother  and  sister, 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  293 

untainted  by  the  slightest  breath  of  the  passion  which  had 
glowed  within  them  only  the  day  before. 

The  dawn  was  breaking,  a  soft  grey  dawn.  Cazenove 
came  to  look  at  the  baby,  and  was  astonished  to  find  it  doing 
so  well.  He  determined  to  take  it  back  into  the  other  room, 
for  he  felt  that  he  could  now  answer  for  Louise.  When  the 
little  creature  was  brought  to  its  mother,  she  looked  at  it 
with  a  feeble  smile,  then  closed  her  eyes  and  fell  into  deep 
and  restorative  slumber.  The  window  had  been  slightly 
opened,  and  a  delicious  freshness,  like  a  very  breath  of  life, 
streamed  in  from  the  sea.  They  all  stood  for  a  moment 
motionless,  worn  out,  but  very  happy,  beside  the  bed  in 
which  the  young  mother  was  sleeping.  Then,  with  silent 
tread,  they  left  the  room,  leaving  Madame  Bouland  to  watch 
over  her. 

The  Doctor,  however,  did  net  go  away  till  nearly  eight 
o'clock.  He  was  very  hungry,  and  Lazare  and  Pauline  them- 
selves were  famished,  so  Veronique  prepared  some  coffee  and 
an  omelet.  Downstairs  they  found  Chanteau,  whom  they 
had  all  forgotten,  sleeping  soundly  in  his  chair.  Nothing  had 
been  touched  since  the  previous  evening,  and  the  room  reeked 
with  the  acrid  smoke  of  the  lamp,  which  was  still  burning. 
Pauline  jokingly  remarked  that  the  table,  on  which  the 
plates  and  dishes  had  remained,  was  already  laid  for  them. 
She  swept  up  the  crumbs  and  made  the  things  a  little  tidier. 
Then,  as  the  coffee  took  some  little  time  to  prepare,  they 
attacked  the  cold  veal,  joking  the  while  about  the  dinner  that 
had  been  so  unpleasantly  interrupted.  Now  that  all  danger 
was  over,  they  were  as  merry  as  children. 

'  You  will  hardly  believe  it,'  Chanteau  exclaimed,  beam- 
ing, '  but  I  slept  without  being  asleep.  I  was  very  angry  that 
nobody  came  down  to  give  me  any  news,  but  I  felt  no  uneasi- 
ness, for  I  dreamt  that  all  was  going  on  well.' 

His  delight  increased  when  he  saw  Abb6  Horteur  enter 
the  room.  The  priest  had  come  across  after  saying  Mass. 
Chanteau  joked  him  merrily. 

1  Ah  !  here  you  are  at  last !  You  deserted  me  in  a  nice 
way  last  night !  Are  you  frightened  of  babies,  then  ?  ' 

The  priest  defended  himself  from  this  charge  by  telling 
them  how  he  had  one  night  delivered  a  poor  woman  on  the 
high-road  and  baptized  her  child.  Then  he  accepted  a  small 
glass  of  cura9oa. 

Bright  sunshine  was  gilding  the  yard  when  Dr.  Cazenove 


294  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

at  last  took  his  departure.  As  Lazare  and  Pauline  walked 
with  him  to  the  gate,  he  whispered  to  the  latter  : 

'  You  are  not  going  away  to-day  ?  ' 

She  remained  for  a  moment  silent,  then  raised  her  big 
dreamy  eyes,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  far  away  into  the 
future. 

'  No ! '  she  answered ;  '  I  must  wait.' 


XI 

AFTER  an  abominable  month  of  May,  June  set  in  with  very 
warm  weather.  Westerly  gales  had  been  blowing  for  the  last 
three  weeks,  storms  had  devastated  the  coast,  swept  away 
masses  of  the  cliffs,  swallowed  up  boats,  and  killed  many 
people ;  but  now  the  broad  blue  sky,  the  satiny  sea,  and  the 
bright  hot  days  were  infinitely  pleasant  and  enjoyable. 

One  glorious  afternoon  Pauline  had  wheeled  Chanteau's 
chair  on  to  the  terrace,  and  near  him,  on  a  red  woollen  rug, 
she  had  deposited  little  Paul,  who  was  now  eighteen  months 
old.  She  was  his  godmother,  and  she  spoilt  the  child  as  much 
as  she  did  the  grandfather. 

'  Are  you  sure  the  sun  won't  inconvenience  you,  uncle  ?  ' 
she  asked. 

'  Oh  dear  no  1  I  should  think  not,  indeed  1  It  is  so  long 
since  I  saw  it.  Are  you  going  to  leave  little  Paul  asleep 
there  ? ' 

4  Yes.    The  fresh  air  will  do  him  good.' 

She  knelt  down  on  the  edge  of  the  rug  and  gazed  at  him. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  white  frock,  with  bare  legs  and  arms 
peeping  beyond  it.  His  eyes  were  fast  closed,  and  his  quiet 
little  rosy  face  was  turned  up  towards  the  sky. 

'  He  has  dropped  off  to  sleep  at  once,'  she  said  softly.  '  He 
tired  himself  out  with  rolling  about.  Don't  let  the  animals 
bother  him.' 

She  shook  her  finger  at  Minouche,  who  sat  at  the  dining- 
room  window  making  an  elaborate  toilet.  Some  distance  off 
Loulou  lay  stretched  out  on  the  gravel,  opening  his  eyes 
every  now  and  then  with  a  glance  of  suspicion,  and  ever 
ready  to  snarl  and  bite. 

As  Pauline  rose  to  her  feet  again,  a  low  groan  came  from 
Chanteau. 

4  Ah !  has  your  pain  returned  ? ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  295 

'  Returned !  Ah  !  it  never  leaves  me  now.  I  groaned, 
eh  ?  Well,  it's  funny,  but  I  do  so  without  even  being  aware 
of  it.' 

He  had  become  a  most  pitiable  object.  By  degrees  his 
chronic  gout  had  led  to  the  accumulation  of  cretaceous 
matter  at  all  his  joints,  and  great  chalk-stones  had  formed 
and  pushed  out  through  his  skin.  His  feet,  which  were 
hidden  out  of  sight  in  his  slippers,  were  contracted  inwards 
like  the  claws  of  a  sickly  bird.  But  his  hands  openly  dis- 
played all  their  horrible  deformity,  swollen  as  they  were  at 
every  joint  with  gleaming  red  knots,  the  fingers  warped  by 
swellings  which  forced  them  apart,  and  the  left  hand  being 
rendered  especially  hideous  by  a  secretion  as  big  as  a  small  egg. 
On  the  left  elbow,  too,  a  more  voluminous  deposit  had  brought 
on  an  ulcer.  Ankylosis  was  now  complete  ;  Chanteau  could 
no  longer  make  use  of  his  hands  or  feet,  and  the  few  joints 
which  could  still  slightly  bend  cracked  with  as  much  noise  as 
though  a  bag  of  marbles  were  being  shaken.  His  whole  body 
seemed  to  have  become  petrified  in  the  position  which  he  had 
adopted  as  the  least  painful — that  is,  a  somewhat  forward  one, 
with  an  inclination  to  the  right ;  and  he  had  so  completely 
shaped  himself  to  his  easy-chair  that  even  when  he  was  put 
to  bed  he  remained  twisted  and  bent.  His  pain  never  left 
him  now,  and  the  least  change  in  the  weather,  or  a  drop  of 
wine,  or  a  mouthful  of  meat  in  excess  of  his  usual  diet, 
brought  on  inflammation. 

'  Would  you  like  a  glass  of  milk  ? '  Pauline  asked  him. 
'  It  would  refresh  you  perhaps.' 

'  Ah !  milk  indeed ! '  he  replied,  between  two  groans. 
'  That's  another  pretty  invention  of  theirs,  that  milk-cure  1 
I  believe  they  finished  me  off  with  that !  No,  no  !  I  won't 
take  anything  ;  that's  the  treatment  that  does  me  the  most 
good.' 

He  asked  her,  however,  to  change  the  position  of  his  left 
leg,  for  he  could  not  move  it  himself. 

'  The  villain  is  all  on  fire  to-day.  Put  it  further  away ; 
push  it.  There,  that  will  do,  thank  you.  What  a  lovely  day  ! 
Oh  dear !  oh  dear  1 ' 

With  his  eyes  turned  towards  the  far-spreading  panorama, 
he  continued  to  groan  quite  unconsciously.  His  moan  of 
pain  had  now  become  quite  as  natural  to  him  as  breathing 
itself.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  heavy  blue  woollen  rug,  and  his 
poor  deformed  hands,  that  looked  so  pitiable  in  the  bright 


296  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

sunshine,  lay  helpless  on  his  knees.  It  pleased  him  to  sit 
and  look  at  the  sea  with  its  infinite  azure,  over  which  white 
sails  flitted  as  over  a  boundless  highway,  open  there  before 
him  who  could  no  longer  put  one  foot  before  another. 

Pauline,  feeling  anxious  at  the  sight  of  Paul's  little  naked 
legs,  knelt  down  again  and  covered  them  up  with  part  of  the 
rug.  For  three  months  past  she  had  always  been  intending 
to  take  her  departure  on  the  following  Monday.  But  the 
child's  feeble  hands  held  her  back  with  a  force  she  could  not 
resist.  For  the  first  month  of  the  boy's  life  they  had  each 
morning  feared  that  he  would  not  live  to  see  the  evening. 
It  was  Pauline  who  had  kept  him  alive  from  day  to  day,  for 
his  mother  was  long  confined  to  her  bed,  and  the  nurse,  whom 
they  had  been  obliged  to  procure,  simply  gave  him  the  breast, 
evincing  the  gentle  stupidity  of  a  cow.  The  most  devoted, 
constant  care  and  attention  were  needed,  and  Pauline  had  to 
keep  perpetual  watch  over  the  child.  By  the  end  of  the 
first  month,  however,  the  boy  had  happily  acquired  the 
strength  of  a  child  born  in  due  season,  and  gradually 
developed.  Still,  he  was  but  a  little  creature,  and  Pauline 
never  left  him  for  a  minute,  more  especially  since  the 
weaning,  which  had  been  attended  by  much  trouble. 

'  There  !  '  she  said,  '  he  can't  take  cold  now.  See,  uncle, 
how  pretty  he  looks  in  this  crimson  rug !  It  makes  him 
quite  rosy.' 

Chanteau  painfully  turned  his  head,  which  was  now  the 
only  part  of  his  body  which  he  was  able  to  move. 

'  If  you  kiss  him,'  he  murmured,  '  you  will  wake  him. 
Don't  disturb  the  little  cherub.  Do  you  see  that  steamer 
over  there  ?  It  is  coming  from  Havre.  How  fast  it  is 
cutting  along !  ' 

Pauline  watched  the  steamer  in  order  to  please  him.  It 
looked  like  a  black  speck  on  the  boundless  waters ;  a  slight 
streak  of  smoke  just  blurred  a  point  of  the  horizon.  For  a 
short  time  the  girl  stood  there,  perfectly  still,  gazing  at  that 
sea  which  slumbered  so  peacefully  beneath  the  clear  sky,  and 
enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  day. 

'  But,  while  I'm  stopping  here,  the  stew  is  getting 
burned ! '  she  exclaimed  at  last,  hurrying  off  towards  the 
kitchen. 

Just  as  she  was  about  to  enter  the  house  a  voice  called 
from  the  first  floor  : 

1  Pauline ! ' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  297 

It  was  Louise,  who  was  leaning  out  of  the  window  of  what 
had  once  been  Madame  Chanteau's  room,  but  which  was  now 
occupied  by  herself  and  Lazare.  She  wore  a  loose  jacket, 
and  her  hair  was  hanging  down.  In  querulous  tones  she 
went  on  :  'If  Lazare's  down  there,  tell  him  to  come  upstairs.' 

'  No,  he  isn't  here.  He  hasn't  come  back  yet,'  Pauline 
replied. 

At  this  Louise  broke  out  angrily  : 

1 1  knew  quite  well  that  we  shouldn't  see  him  again  till 
this  evening,  even  if  he  condescends  to  come  back  then.  He 
stayed  away  all  night  in  spite  of  his  express  promise.  Ah  1 
he's  a  nice  fellow.  When  he  once  gets  to  Caen,  there's  no 
getting  him  away  from  it ! ' 

4  He  has  so  few  amusements,'  Pauline  gently  urged. 
'  And  then  this  business  about  the  manure  would  keep  him 
some  time.  No  doubt  he  will  take  advantage  of  the  Doctor's 
gig,  and  come  back  in  it.' 

Since  Lazare  and  Louise  had  settled  down  at  Bonneville 
they  had  lived  a  life  of  perpetual  misunderstanding  and 
bickering.  There  were  no  open  quarrels  between  them,  but 
constant  signs  of  ill-temper,  the  lives  of  both  being  rendered 
unhappy  by  want  of  harmony.  Louise,  after  a  long  and 
painful  convalescence,  was  now  leading  an  empty,  aimless 
existence,  manifesting  the  greatest  distaste  for  domestic 
matters,  and  spending  her  time  in  novel-reading  and  pro- 
tracted toilets.  Lazare  had  again  fallen  a  prey  to  over- 
whelming ennui ;  he  never  opened  a  book,  but  spent  his 
time  in  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  sea,  just  escaping  to  Caen 
at  long  intervals,  though  only  to  return  home  more  weary 
than  ever.  Pauline,  who  had  been  obliged  to  retain  the 
management  of  the  house,  had  become  quite  indispensable  to 
them,  for  she  patched  up  their  quarrels  several  times  a  day. 

'  Be  quick  and  finish  dressing  !  '  added  the  girl.  '  The 
Abb6  will  be  here  directly,  and  you  must  come  and  sit  with 
him  and  my  uncle.  I  have  too  much  to  do  myself.' 

But  Louise  could  not  rid  herself  of  her  rancour. 

1  How  can  he  do  it  ?  Keeping  away  from  home  all  this 
time  !  My  father  wrote  to  me  yesterday  and  toid  me  that 
the  remainder  of  our  money  would  go  the  same  way  as  the 
rest.' 

Lazare  had,  indeed,  allowed  himself  to  be  swindled  in  a 
couple  of  unfortunate  speculations,  and  Pauline  had  become 
so  anxious  on  the  child's  account  that,  as  his  godmother,  she 


298  THE  JO  Y  OF  LIFE 

had  made  him  a  present  of  two-thirds  of  what  she  still 
possessed,  taking  out  in  his  name  a  policy  which  would 
assure  him  a  hundred  thousand  francs  on  the  day  he  reached 
his  majority.  She  now  had  only  an  income  of  five  hun- 
dred francs  herself,  but  her  sole  regret  in  the  matter  was 
the  necessity  she  was  under  of  curtailing  her  customary 
charities. 

'  A  fine  speculation  that  manure  business  is  1 '  Louise 
continued.  '  I  am  sure  my  father  will  have  made  him  give  it 
up,  and  he's  only  stopping  away  to  amuse  himself.  Oh, 
well  1  I  don't  care !  He  may  be  as  dissolute  as  he  likes  ! ' 

'  Then  what  are  you  getting  so  angry  for  ? '  Pauline 
retorted.  '  But  you  know  that's  all  nonsense ;  the  poor 
fellow  never  thinks  of  anything  wrong.  Do  hurry  down, 
won't  you  ?  What  can  have  happened  to  V6ronique,  I 
wonder,  that  she  should  disappear  in  this  way  on  a  Saturday, 
and  leave  me  all  her  work  to  do  ? ' 

In  fact,  a  most  extraordinary  thing  had  happened — one 
which  had  been  puzzling  the  whole  house  since  two  o'clock. 
V6ronique  had  prepared  the  vegetables  for  the  stew,  and 
plucked  and  trussed  a  duck ;  and  then  she  had  disappeared 
as  suddenly  and  completely  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  her 
up.  Pauline,  quite  astounded  by  this  sudden  disappearance, 
had  at  last  resolved  to  undertake  the  cooking  of  the  stew 
herself. 

'  She  hasn't  come  back,  then  ? '  asked  Louise,  recovering 
from  her  anger. 

'  No,  indeed ! '  Pauline  replied.  '  Do  you  know  what  I 
am  beginning  to  think  ?  She  bought  the  duck  for  forty  sous 
of  a  woman  who  happened  to  be  passing,  and  I  remember 
telling  her  that  I  had  seen  much  finer  ones  for  thirty  sous  at 
Verchemont.  She  tossed  her  head  directly,  and  gave  me 
one  of  her  surly  looks.  Well,  I'll  be  bound  that  she  has 
gone  to  Verchemont  to  see  if  I  wasn't  telling  a  lie.' 

She  smiled,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her  smile, 
for  the  surliness  which  Veronique  was  again  manifesting 
pained  her.  The  servant's  gradually  increasing  ill-will 
against  Pauline  since  Madame  Chanteau's  death  had  now 
brought  her  back  to  the  virulence  of  the  very  early  days. 

'  We've  none  of  us  been  able  to  get  a  word  out  of  her  for 
a  week  or  more,'  said  Louise.  '  Any  sort  of  folly  may  be 
expected  from  a  person  with  such  a  disposition.' 

'  Well,'  said  Pauline  charitably,  '  we  must    excuse  her 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  299 

whims.  She  is  sure  to  come  back  again,  and  we  shan't  die 
of  hunger  this  time.' 

But  the  baby  now  began  to  move  about  on  the  rug,  and 
she  ran  up  and  bent  over  it. 

'  Well  1  what  is  it,  my  dear  ? ' 

The  mother,  who  was  still  at  the  window,  glanced  out  for 
a  moment  and  then  disappeared  within  the  room.  Chanteau, 
quite  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  just  turned  his  head  as 
Loulou  began  to  bark,  and  then  called  out  to  his  niece  : 

'  Here  are  your  visitors,  Pauline  ! ' 

Two  ragged  young  urchins,  the  advanced  guard  of  the 
troop  which  she  received  every  Saturday,  now  came  up. 
Little  Paul  had  quickly  dropped  off  to  sleep  once  more,  and 
she  rose  and  said : 

'It's  a  nice  time  for  them  to  come  !  I  haven't  a  minute 
to  spare.  Well,  never  mind;  stay,  since  you're  here.  Sit 
down  on  the  bench.  And,  uncle,  if  any  more  of  them  come, 
please  make  them  sit  down  by  the  side  of  these.  I  must  just 
go  and  glance  at  my  stew.' 

When  she  returned,  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
two  boys  and  two  girls  were  already  seated  on  the  bench ; 
they  were  some  of  her  little  beggars  of  former  days,  but 
had  now  grown  much  bigger,  though  they  still  retained  their 
mendicant  habits. 

Never  before  had  there  been  so  much  distress  in  Bonne- 
ville.  During  the  storms  in  May  the  three  remaining  houses 
had  been  crushed  against  the  cliffs.  The  destruction  was 
now  complete  ;  the  flood-tides  had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  the 
village  after  centuries  of  attack,  during  which  the  sea  had 
each  year  devoured  one  or  another  part  of  the  place.  On 
the  shingle  one  now  only  saw  the  conquering  waves,  which 
effaced  even  all  trace  of  the  ruins.  The  fishermen,  expelled 
from  the  nook  where  for  generation  after  generation  they 
had  obstinately  persisted  in  struggling  against  the  ceaseless 
onslaught,  had  been  compelled  to  migrate  further  up  the 
ravine,  where  they  were  camping  in  companies.  The  richer 
ones  had  built  cabins  for  themselves,  while  the  poorer  ones 
were  taking  refuge  under  rocks,  all  combining  to  found  a  new 
Bonneville,  from  which  their  descendants  would  in  turn  be 
ejected  after  fresh  centuries  of  contest.  Before  it  could 
complete  its  work  of  destruction,  the  sea  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  sweep  the  piles  and  stockades  away.  On  the  day  of 
their  overthrow  the  wind  had  blown  from  the  north,  and 


300  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

such  huge  mountains  of  water  had  dashed  up  that  the  church 
itself  had  been  shaken  by  the  violence  with  which  they  broke 
against  the  shore.  Lazare,  though  he  was  told  of  what  was 
happening,  would  not  go  down.  He  had  remained  on  the 
terrace,  watching  the  waves  sweep  up,  while  the  fishermen 
rushed  off  to  view  the  desperate  onslaught.  They  were 
thrilled  with  mingled  pride  and  awe.  Ah  !  how  the  hussy 
was  howling !  Now  she  was  going  to  make  a  clean  sweep 
of  it  all !  And  in  less  than  twenty  minutes,  indeed,  every- 
thing had  disappeared,  the  stockades  were  broken  down,  and 
the  timbers  were  smashed  into  matchwood.  And  the  fisher- 
men roared  with  the  waves,  and  gesticulated  and  danced  like 
so  many  savages,  intoxicated  by  the  wind  and  the  sea,  and 
glutting  themselves  with  the  sight  of  all  that  destruction. 
Then,  while  Lazare  angrily  shook  his  fist  at  them,  they  had 
fled  for  their  lives,  closely  pursued  by  the  wild  rush  of  the 
waves,  which  nothing  more  held  in  check.  Now  they  were 
perishing  of  starvation,  and  groaning  as  of  old  in  their  new 
Bonneville,  accusing  the  hussy  of  their  ruin  and  commending 
themselves  to  the  charity  of  the  '  kind  young  lady.' 

'  What  are  you  doing  there  ? '  cried  Pauline,  as  she 
saw  Houtelard's  son.  'I  forbade  you  ever  to  come  here 
again ! ' 

He  was  a  great  strapping  fellow,  now  nearly  twenty  years 
old.  His  former  sad  and  timid  expression,  that  told  of  bad 
treatment  at  home,  had  turned  into  a  sly,  crafty  look.  He 
lowered  his  eyes  as  he  replied  : 

'  Please  take  pity  upon  us,  Mademoiselle  Pauline.  We 
are  so  miserable  and  wretched  now  that  father  is  dead  ! ' 

Houtelard  had  gone  off  to  sea  one  stormy  evening  and 
had  never  returned.  His  body  had  never  been  found,  nor 
had  that  of  his  mate,  nor  even  a  single  plank  of  their  boat. 
Pauline,  however,  obliged  as  she  was  to  exercise  strict  super- 
vision over  her  charities,  had  sworn  that  she  would  never 
give  a  single  sou  to  either  son  or  widow,  for  they  lived 
together  in  open  shame. 

'  You  know  quite  well  why  I  won't  have  you  coming 
here,'  Pauline  replied.  '  When  you  behave  differently,  I  will 
see  what  I  can  do  for  you.' 

Thereupon  the  young  fellow  began  to  plead  his  cause  in 
a  whining  voice  :  '  It  is  all  her  fault ;  she  brought  it  about. 
She  would  have  gone  on  beating  me  otherwise.  Please  give 
us  a  trifle,  kind  young  lady.  We  have  lost  everything.  I 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  301 

could  get  on  well  enough  myself,  but  it  is  for  her  that  I'm 
asking  you,  and  she  is  very  ill — indeed  she  is ;  I  swear  it.' 

Pauline  ended  by  taking  pity  on  him  and  sending  him 
away  with  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  stew  ;  and  she  even 
promised  to  call  on  the  sick  woman  and  take  her  some 
medicine. 

'  Medicine,  indeed  ! '  muttered  Chanteau.  '  Just  you  try 
to  get  her  to  swallow  it ! ' 

But  Pauline  had  already  turned  her  attention  to  the 
Prouane  girl,  one  of  whose  cheeks  was  gashed. 

'  How  have  you  managed  to  do  that  ?  ' 

'  I  fell  against  a  tree,  Mademoiselle  Pauline.' 

'  Against  a  tree  ?  It  looks  more  like  a  cut  from  the  corner 
of  a  table.' 

She  was  a  big  girl  now,  with  prominent  cheek-bones,  but 
she  still  had  the  great  haggard  eyes  of  a  weak-witted  child, 
and  she  made  vain  efforts  to  remain  standing  in  a  respectful 
attitude.  Her  legs  shook  under  her,  and  she  could  scarcely 
articulate  her  words. 

'  Why !  you  have  been  drinking,  you  wicked  girl ! '  cried 
Pauline,  scrutinizing  her  keenly. 

'  Oh,  Mademoiselle  !  how  can  you  say  so  ? ' 

'You  were  drunk  and  you  fell  down!  Isn't  it  so?  I 
know  very  well  what  you  are  all  given  to.  Sit  down,  and 
I  will  go  and  get  some  arnica  and  a  bandage.' 

She  attended  to  the  girl's  cheek,  and  tried  to  make  her 
feel  ashamed  of  herself.  It  was  disgraceful,  she  told  her,  for 
a  girl  of  her  age  to  intoxicate  herself  with  her  father  and 
mother,  a  couple  of  drunkards  who  would  be  found  dead 
some  morning,  poisoned  by  calvados.  The  girl  listened 
drowsily,  and  when  her  cheek  was  bandaged  she  stammered 
out : 

'Father  is  always  complaining  of  pains,  and  I  could 
rub  him  well  if  you  would  give  me  a  little  camphorated 
brandy.' 

Neither  Pauline  nor  Chanteau  could  keep  from  laughing. 

1  No,  no  !  I  know  very  well  what  would  become  of  the 
brandy.  I  will  give  you  a  loaf,  though  I'm  afraid  you  will 
go  and  sell  it  and  spend  the  money  in  drink.  Stay  where 
you  are,  and  Cuche  shall  take  you  home.' 

Young  Cuche  got  up  from  the  bench  in  his  turn.  His 
feet  were  bare  ;  indeed,  the  only  clothes  he  wore  were  some 
old  breeches  and  a  ragged  shirt,  through  which  showed  parts 


302  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

of  his  skin,  browned  by  the  sun  and  torn  by  brambles.  He 
was  to  be  met  running  about  the  high-roads,  leaping  over 
hedges  with  the  agility  of  a  wolf,  living  like  a  savage,  to 
whom  hunger  makes  every  sort  of  prey  acceptable.  He  had 
reached  the  lowest  depths  of  misery  and  destitution,  such  an 
abyss  of  wretchedness  that  Pauline  looked  at  him  with 
remorse,  as  though  she  felt  guilty  for  allowing  a  human 
being  to  go  on  living  in  such  a  state.  But  whenever  she 
had  attempted  to  rescue  him,  he  had  always  fled,  hating  all 
thought  of  work  or  service. 

'  Since  you  have  come  here  again,'  she  said  to  him  gently, 
'I  suppose  you  have  thought  over  what  I  said  to  you  last 
Saturday.  I  hope  that  your  return  here  is  a  sign  that 
you  are  not  lost  to  all  sense  of  what  is  right.  You  cannot 
go  on  leading  your  present  vagabond  life ;  I  am  no  longer 
as  rich  as  I  was,  and  I  cannot  support  you  in  idleness.  Have 
you  made  up  your  mind  to  accept  my  offer  ? ' 

Since  the  loss  of  her  fortune  Pauline  had  tried  to  make 
up  for  her  lack  of  money  by  interesting  other  charitable 
people  in  her  pensioners.  Doctor  Cazenove  had  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  the  admission  of  Cuche's  mother  into 
the  hospital  for  incurables  at  Bayeux,  and  Pauline  herself 
held  in  reserve  a  sum  of  one  hundred  francs  to  provide  an 
outfit  for  the  son,  for  whom  she  had  found  a  berth  among 
the  workmen  employed  on  the  railway  line  to  Cherbourg.  He 
bent  his  head  as  she  spoke,  and  listened  to  her  with  an 
expression  of  distrust. 

'  It's  quite  settled,  isn't  it  ? '  she  continued.  '  You  will 
accompany  your  mother,  and  then  you  will  go  to  your  post.' 

But  as  she  stepped  towards  him  he  sprang  back.  His 
eyes,  though  downcast,  never  left  her,  and  he  seemed  to 
think  that  she  was  going  to  seize  him  by  his  wrists. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ? '  she  asked  in  surprise. 

Then,  with  a  wild  animal's  uneasy  glance,  the  lad  mur- 
mured :  '  You  are  going  to  take  me  and  shut  me  up.  I  don't 
want  to  go.' 

All  further  attempts  at  persuasion  were  useless.  He  let 
her  continue  talking,  and  appeared  to  admit  the  force  of 
her  reasoning ;  but  as  soon  as  ever  she  moved  he  sprang 
towards  the  gate,  and  with  an  obstinate  shake  of  the  head 
refused  her  offers  for  his  mother  and  for  himself,  preferring 
freedom  and  starvation. 

'  Take  yourself  off,  you  lazy  impostor  ! '  Chanteau  cried 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  303 

at  last  in  indignation.      '  It    is    kindness    thrown    away, 
troubling  one's  self  about  such  a  vagabond.' 

Pauline's  hands  trembled  as  she  thought  of  her  wasted 
charity,  her  failure  to  effect  anything  for  this  lad,  who 
insisted  on  remaining  in  misery. 

'  No,  no !  uncle,'  she  said,  with  an  expression  of  despairing 
tolerance,  '  they  are  starving,  and  they  must  have  some  food 
in  spite  of  everything.' 

She  called  Cuche  back  to  her  to  give  him,  as  on  other 
Saturdays,  a  loaf  of  bread  and  forty  sous.  But  he  backed 
away  from  her,  saying  : 

'  Put  it  down  on  the  ground  and  go  away,  and  I  will  come 
and  pick  it  up.' 

She  did  as  he  told  her.  Then  he  cautiously  stepped 
forward,  casting  suspicious  glances  around  him.  As  soon  as 
he  had  picked  up  the  forty  sous  and  the  loaf  he  ran  off  as 
fast  as  his  bare  feet  could  carry  him. 

'  The  wild  beast !  '  cried  Chanteau.  '  He  will  come  and 
murder  us  all  one  of  these  nights.  It's  just  like  that  little 
gaol-bird's  daughter  there.  I  would  swear  it  was  she  who 
stole  my  silk  handkerchief  the  other  day.' 

He  was  speaking  of  the  Tourmal  girl,  whose  grandfather 
had  lately  joined  her  father  in  gaol.  She  was  now  the  only 
one  who  was  left  on  the  bench  with  the  little  Prouane,  who 
was  stupefied  with  drink.  She  got  up,  without  any  sign  that 
she  had  heard  the  charge  of  theft  brought  against  her,  and 
she  began  to  whine :  '  Have  pity  upon  us,  kind  young  lady  ! 
There  is  nobody  but  mother  and  me  at  home  now.  The 
gendarmes  come  and  beat  us  every  night.  My  body  is  all 
one  big  bruise,  and  mother  is  dying.  Oh  !  kind  young  lady, 
do  give  us  some  money  and  some  good  meat-soup  and  some 
wine ' 

Chanteau,  quite  exasperated  by  the  girl's  string  of  lies, 
moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  but  Pauline  would  have  given 
the  chemise  off  her  back. 

'  There !  there  !  That  will  do,'  she  muttered.  '  You 
would  get  more  if  you  talked  less.  Stay  where  you  are,  and 
I  will  make  up  a  basket  for  you.' 

When  she  came  back,  bringing  with  her  an  old  fish- 
hamper,  in  which  she  had  put  a  loaf,  two  litre-bottles  of  wine, 
and  some  meat,  she  found  another  of  her  pensioners  on  the 
terrace,  the  Gonin  girl,  who  had  brought  her  child  with  her, 
a  girl  now  some  twenty  months  old.  The  mother,  who 


304  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

was  sixteen  years  of  age,  was  so  fragile  and  slight  of  figure 
that  she  seemed  more  like  the  child's  elder  sister.  She  was 
scarcely  able  to  carry  the  infant,  but  she  nevertheless  brought 
it  to  the  house,  as  she  knew  that  Mademoiselle  Pauline  was 
very  fond  of  children  and  could  refuse  them  nothing. 

'  Good  gracious  1  How  heavy  she  is  ! '  cried  Pauline,  as 
she  took  the  child  in  her  arms.  '  And  to  think  that  she  is  not 
six  months  older  than  our  Paul ! ' 

Despite  herself,  her  eyes  turned  sadly  towards  the  little 
boy,  who  was  still  lying  asleep  upon  the  rug.  However,  the 
young  mother  began  to  complain  : 

'If  you  only  knew  how  much  she  eats,  Mademoiselle 
Pauline !  And  I've  no  bed-linen,  and  nothing  to  dress  her 
with.  And  then,  since  father  is  dead,  mother  and  the  other 
one  are  always  ill-using  me.  They  treat  me  like  the  lowest 
of  the  low,  and  say  that  if  I  have  a  baby  I  ought  to  provide 
what  it  costs  to  keep  it.' 

'  Poor  little  thing ! '  Pauline  murmured.  '  I  am  knitting 
her  some  socks.  You  must  bring  her  to  see  me  oftener; 
there  is  always  milk  here,  and  she  might  have  a  few  spoon- 
fuls of  gruel.  I  will  go  and  see  your  mother,  and  I'll  try  to 
frighten  her,  as  she  still  behaves  unkindly  to  you.' 

The  girl  took  up  her  daughter  again,  while  Pauline 
began  to  prepare  a  parcel. 

However,  Abbe"  Horteur  now  appeared  upon  the  terrace. 

'  Here  come  Monsieur  Lazare  and  the  Doctor,'  he 
announced. 

At  the  same  moment  they  heard  the  wheels  of  the  gig, 
and  while  Martin,  the  ex- sailor  with  the  wooden  leg,  was 
leading  the  horse  to  the  stable,  Cazenove  came  round  from 
the  yard,  crying : 

'  I  am  bringing  you  back  the  rake  who  stopped  away  from 
home  all  night.  You  won't  be  very  hard  on  him,  I  hope  !  ' 

Lazare  now  appeared,  smiling  feebly.  He  was  quickly 
ageing ;  his  shoulders  were  bent  and  his  face  was  cadaverous, 
devastated  by  the  mental  anguish  which  was  destroying  him. 
He  was  no  doubt  on  the  point  of  explaining  the  reason  of  his 
delay  when  the  window  of  the  first  floor,  which  had  remained 
open,  was  violently  closed. 

'  Louise  hasn't  quite  finished  dressing  yet,'  Pauline 
explained.  '  She  will  be  down  in  a  minute  or  two.' 

They  all  looked  at  one  another,  and  there  was  a  feeling 
of  embarrassment.  That  angry  banging  of  the  window 


THE  JOY  OF  LIJ>£  305 

portended  a  quarrel.  After  taking  a  step  or  two  towards  the 
stairs,  Lazare  checked  himself  and  determined  to  wait  where 
he  was.  He  kissed  his  father  and  little  Paul ;  and  then,  to 
conceal  his  disquietude,  he  tackled  his  cousin,  saying  to  her 
in  a  querulous  voice  : 

'  Kid  us  of  all  this  vermin  I  You  know  I  can't  bear  to 
see  them  anywhere  near  me.' 

He  was  referring  to  the  three  girls  who  were  still  on  the 
bench.  Pauline  hastened  to  tie  up  the  parcel  which  she  had 
made  for  the  Gonin  girl. 

'  There  !  you  can  go  now,"  she  said.  '  You  two  just  take 
your  companion  home,  and  mind  she  doesn't  fall  any  more. 
And,  you,  look  well  after  your  baby,  and  try  not  to  forget  it 
or  leave  it  anywhere  on  the  road.' 

As  they  were  at  last  setting  off  Lazare  msisted  upon 
examining  the  Tourmal  girl's  hamper.  She  had  already 
contrived  to  stow  away  in  it  an  old  coffee-pot,  which  had 
been  thrown  aside  in  a  corner  and  which  she  had  managed 
to  steal.  Then  all  three  of  the  little  hussies  were  driven 
away,  the  young  drunkard  tottering  along  between  the  two 
others. 

'  What  a  dreadful  lot  they  are  I '  exclaimed  the  priest, 
sitting  down  by  Chanteau's  side.  '  God  has  certainly 
abandoned  them.  Some  have  children  directly  after  their 
first  Communion,  and  others  take  to  drinking  and  thieving 
like  their  parents.  Ah,  well  1  I've  warned  them  of  what  will 
happen  to  them  some  day ! ' 

'  I  say,  my  dear  fellow,'  then  began  the  Doctor,  addressing 
Lazare  in  an  ironical  tone,  '  are  you  thinking  of  building 
those  famous  stockades  of  yours  over  again  ?  ' 

Lazare  made  an  angry  gesture.  Any  allusion  to  his 
defeat  in  his  struggle  with  the  sea  exasperated  him. 

'  No  indeed !  '  he  cried.  '  I  would  let  the  sea  sweep  into 
our  own  house,  without  even  putting  a  broom-handle  across 
the  road  to  stay  its  course.  No,  no  1  indeed.  I've  been 
very  foolish  as  it  is,  but  one  doesn't  commit  that  kind  of 
folly  again.  I  actually  saw  those  scoundrels  dancing  with 
delight  on  the  day  of  the  catastrophe !  Do  you  know  what  I 
begin  to  think?  I  feel  sure  they  had  sawn  through  the 
beams  on  the  day  before  the  flood-tide,  for  they  would  never 
have  given  way  as  they  did  if  they  had  not  been  tampered 
with.' 

He  tried  in  this  way  to  salve  his  wounded  pride  as  an 

x 


3o6  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

engineer.  Then,  stretching  his  hand  towards  Bonneville,  he 
added : 

'  Let  them  all  go  to  smash  I  I  will  take  my  turn  at 
dancing  then ! ' 

'  Don't  say  such  wicked  things  !  '  Pauline  observed  in  her 
quiet  manner.  '  Only  the  poor  may  he  excused  for  being 
wicked.  You  ought  to  build  up  the  stockade  again  in  spite 
of  everything.' 

Lazare  had  already  calmed  down,  as  though  his  last  burst 
of  passion  had  exhausted  him. 

'  No,  no ! '  he  muttered,  '  it  would  bore  me  too  much. 
But  you  are  right ;  there  is  nothing  for  one  to  make  oneself 
angry  about.  Whether  they're  drowned  or  not,  what  does  it 
matter  to  me  ?  ' 

Silence  fell  again.  Chanteau  had  fallen  back  into  a 
posture  of  dolorous  immobility  after  raising  his  head  to 
receive  his  son's  kiss.  The  priest  was  twirling  his  thumbs, 
and  the  Doctor  paced  about,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
They  all  began  to  look  at  little  Paul,  whom  Pauline  defended 
even  from  his  father's  caresses,  to  prevent  him  from  being 
wakened.  Since  the  others  had  come  she  had  begged  them 
to  lower  their  voices  and  not  to  tread  so  heavily  about  the 
rug,  and  she  now  shook  a  whip  at  Loulou,  who  still 
continued  to  growl  at  the  noise  he  had  heard  when  the  horse 
was  led  to  the  stable. 

'  You  don't  suppose  that  that  will  quiet  him,  do  you  ? ' 
said  Lazare.  '  He'll  make  that  row  for  an  hour.  He's  the 
most  disagreeable  brute  I  ever  came  across.  He  begins  to 
snarl  directly  one  moves,  and  one  might  as  well  be  without  a 
dog  at  all,  he  is  so  completely  absorbed  in  himself.  The 
only  good  the  sulky  beast  does  is  to  make  us  regret  our  poor 
old  Matthew.' 

'  How  old  is  Minouche  now  ?  '  Cazenove  inquired.  '  I 
have  seen  her  about  here  as  long  as  I  can  remember.' 

'  She  is  turned  sixteen,'  Pauline  answered,  '  and  she 
keeps  very  well  yet." 

Minouche,  who  was  still  at  her  toilet  on  the  dining-room 
window-sill,  raised  her  head  as  the  Doctor  pronounced  her 
name.  For  a  moment  she  held  her  foot  suspended  in  the 
air,  then  again  began  to  lick  her  fur  delicately. 

'  She  isn't  deaf  yet,  you  see,'  Pauline  said  ;  '  but  I  fancy 
her  sight  is  not  so  good  as  it  was.  It  is  scarcely  a  week  ago 
since  seven  kittens  of  hers  were  drowned.  It  is  really  quite 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  307 

terrible  to  think  of  the  number  she  has  had  during  the  lasl 
sixteen  years.  If  they  had  all  been  allowed  to  live  they 
would  have  eaten  up  the  whole  neighbourhood.' 

'  Well,  well,  she  at  any  rate  keeps  neat  and  clean,1  said 
the  priest,  glancing  at  Minouche  as  she  continued  washing 
herself  with  her  tongue. 

Chanteau,  who,  like  the  others,  waa  looking  towards  the 
cat,  now  began  to  moan  more  loudly  with  that  incessant 
involuntary  expression  of  pain  which  had  become  so  habitual 
to  him  that  he  had  grown  unconscious  of  it. 

'  Are  you  feeling  worse  ? '  the  Doctor  asked  him. 

'Eh?  What?  Why  do  you  ask?'  he  said,  suddenly 
seeming  to  awake.  'Ah,  it's  because  I'm  breathing  heavily. 
Yes,  I  am  in  great  pain  this  evening.  I  thought  that  the 
sun  would  do  me  good,  but  I  feel  as  though  I  were  being 
suffocated,  and  I  haven't  a  joint  that  isn't  burning.' 

Cazenove  examined  his  hands.  They  all  shuddered  at  the 
sight  of  those  poor  deformed  stumps.  The  priest  made 
another  of  his  sensible  remarks. 

'  Such  fingers  as  those  are  not  adapted  for  playing 
draughts.  That's  an  amusement  which  you  can't  have 
now.' 

'  Be  very  careful  about  what  you  eat  and  drink,'  the 
Doctor  urged.  '  Your  elbow  is  highly  inflamed,  and  the 
ulceration  is  increasing." 

'  How  can  I  be  more  careful  than  I  am  ? '  Chanteau 
wailed  hopelessly.  'My  wine  is  all  measured  out  and  my 
meat  is  weighed !  Must  I  give  up  taking  anything  at  all  ? 
Indeed,  it  isn't  living  to  go  on  like  this,  and  one  might 
as  well  die  at  once.  I  can't  eat  even  without  assistance — 
how  is  it  likely  with  such  things  as  these  at  the  end  of  my 
arms  ? — and  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  Pauline,  who  feeds 
me,  takes  care  that  I  don't  get  anything  that  I  oughtn't 
to  have.' 

The  girl  smiled. 

'Ah!  yes,  indeed,'  she  said,  'you  ate  too  much  yester- 
day. It  was  my  fault,  but  I  couldn't  refuse  when  I  saw  how 
your  appetite  was  distressing  you.' 

At  this  they  all  pretended  to  grow  merry,  and  began  to 
tease  him  about  the  junketings  in  which  they  declared  he 
still  indulged.  But  their  voices  trembled  with  pity  as  they 
glanced  at  that  remnant  of  a  man,  that  inert  mass  of  flesh, 
which  now  only  lived  enough  to  suffer.  He  had  fallen  back 


3o8  THE  fOY  OF  LIFE 

into  his  usual  position,  with  his  body  leaning  to  the  right  and 
his  hands  lying  on  his  knees. 

'  This  evening  now,  for  instance,'  Pauline  continued, 
'  we  are  going  to  have  a  roast  duck ' 

But  she  suddenly  checked  herself  to  ask  : 

'  By  the  way,  did  you  see  anything  of  Ve"ronique  as  you 
came  through  Verchemont  ?  ' 

Then  she  told  Lazare  and  the  Doctor  the  story  of 
Ve'ronique's  disappearance.  Neither  of  them  had  seen  any- 
thing of  her.  They  expressed  some  astonishment  at  the 
woman's  strange  whims,  and  ended  by  growing  merry  over 
the  subject.  It  would  be  a  fine  sight,  they  said,  to  see  her 
face  when  she  came  back  and  found  them  already  round  the 
table  with  the  dinner  cooked  and  served. 

'  I  must  leave  you  now,'  said  Pauline  gaily,  '  for  I  have 
to  attend  to  the  kitchen.  If  I  let  the  stew  get  burnt,  or  serve 
the  duck  underdone,  my  uncle  will  give  me  notice  ! ' 

Abbe"  Horteur  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  even 
Doctor  Cazenove  himself  seemed  tickled  at  the  idea,  when 
the  window  on  the  first  floor  was  suddenly  thrown  open  with 
a  tremendous  clatter.  Louise  did  not  show  herself,  but 
merely  called  in  a  sharp  voice : 

'  Come  upstairs,  Lazare  ! ' 

At  first  Lazare  seemed  inclined  to  rebel  and  to  refuse 
obedience  to  a  command  given  in  such  a  voice.  But  Pauline, 
anxious  to  avoid  a  scene  before  visitors,  gave  him  an  entreat- 
ing look,  and  he  went  off  to  the  house,  while  his  cousin 
remained  for  a  moment  or  two  longer  on  the  terrace  to  do 
what  she  could  to  dissipate  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation. 
No  one  spoke,  and  they  all  looked  at  the  sea  in  embarrass- 
ment. The  westering  sun  was  now  casting  a  sheet  of  gold 
over  it,  crowning  the  little  blue  waves  with  quivering  fires. 
Far  away  in  the  distance  the  horizon  was  changing  to  a  soft 
lilac  hue.  The  lovely  day  was  drawing  towards  its  close  in 
perfect  serenity,  and  not  a  cloud  or  a  sail  flecked  the  infinite 
stretch  of  sky  and  sea. 

'  Well,  as  he  never  came  home  last  night,'  Pauline  at 
last  ventured  to  say  with  a  smile,  '  I  suppose  it  is  necessary 
to  lecture  him  a  little.' 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her,  and  on  his  face  also  appeared  a 
smile,  in  which  Pauline  could  read  his  prediction  of  former 
days,  when  he  had  told  her  that  she  wasn't  making  them  a 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  309 

very  desirable  present  in  bestowing  them  on  one  another. 
And  at  this  she  walked  away  towards  the  kitchen. 

'  Well,  I  must  really  leave  you  now,'  she  said.  '  Try  to 
amuse  yourselves.  Call  for  me,  uncle,  if  Paul  wakes  up  again.' 

In  the  kitchen,  when  she  had  stirred  the  stew  and  got  the 
spit  ready,  she  knocked  the  pots  and  pans  about  impatiently. 
The  voices  of  Louise  and  Lazare  reached  her  more  and  more 
distinctly  through  the  ceiling,  and  she  grew  distressed  as  she 
thought  that  they  would  certainly  be  heard  on  the  terrace. 
It  was  very  absurd  of  them,  she  said  to  herself,  to  go  on 
shouting  as  though  they  were  both  deaf,  and  letting  every- 
body know  of  their  disagreements.  But  she  did  not  care  to 
go  up  to  them,  partly  because  she  had  to  get  the  dinner 
ready,  and  partly  because  she  felt  ill  at  ease  at  the  thought 
of  interfering  with  them  in  their  own  room.  It  was  generally 
downstairs,  amid  the  common  life  of  the  family,  that  she 
played  her  part  of  reconciler. 

She  went  into  the  dining-room  for  a  few  moments  and 
busied  herself  with  laying  the  table.  But  the  shouting  still 
continued,  and  she  could  no  longer  bear  the  thought  that 
they  were  making  themselves  unhappy.  So,  impelled  by 
that  spirit  of  active  charity  which  made  the  happiness  of 
others  the  chief  thought  of  her  life,  she  at  last  went  upstairs. 

'  My  dear  children,'  she  exclaimed,  as  she  abruptly 
entered  the  room,  '  I  daresay  you  will  tell  me  it  is  no  busi- 
ness of  mine,  but  you  are  really  making  too  much  noise.  It 
is  very  foolish  of  you  to  excite  yourselves  in  this  way  and 
disturb  the  whole  house.' 

She  had  hastily  stepped  across  the  room,  and  at  once 
closed  the  window,  which  Louise  had  left  open.  Fortunately 
neither  the  priest  nor  the  Doctor  had  remained  on  the 
terrace.  With  one  quick  glance  she  had  seen  that  there  was 
nobody  there  except  the  drowsing  Chanteau  and  little  Paul, 
who  was  still  asleep. 

'  We  could  hear  you  out  there  as  plainly  as  if  you  had 
been  in  the  dining-room,'  she  resumed.  '  Come,  now,  what 
is  the  matter  this  time  ? ' 

But,  their  tempers  aroused,  they  continued  quarrelling 
without  taking  any  notice  of  Pauline.  She  now  stood  there, 
still  and  silent,  feeling  ill  at  ease  again  in  that  room.  The 
yellow  cretonne  with  its  green  pattern,  the  old  mahogany 
furniture  and  the  red  carpet,  had  been  replaced  by  heavy 
woollen  hangings  and  furniture  more  in  harmony  with 


3io  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

Louise's  delicacy  of  taste.  There  was  nothing  left  to  remind 
one  of  the  dead  mother.  A  scent  of  heliotrope  arose  from 
the  toilet-table,  on  which  lay  some  damp  towels,  and  the 
perfume  somewhat  oppressed  Pauline.  She  involuntarily 
glanced  round  the  room,  in  which  every  object  spoke  of  the 
familiar  life  of  husband  and  wife.  Though,  as  her  rebellious 
thoughts  calmed  down,  she  had  at  last  prevailed  upon  herself 
to  continue  living  with  them,  she  had  never  previously  entered 
their  room,  where  all  things  suggested  conjugal  privacy.  And 
thus  she  quivered  almost  with  the  jealousy  of  former  times. 

'  How  can  you  make  each  other  so  unhappy  ?  '  she  mur- 
mured, after  a  short  interval  of  silence.  '  Won't  you  ever  be 
sensible  ? ' 

'  Well,  no,  I've  had  quite  enough  of  it ! '  cried  Louise. 
1  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  allow  that  he  is  in  the  wrong  ?  I 
merely  told  him  how  uneasy  he  had  made  us  all  by  not  com- 
ing home  last  night,  and  then  he  flew  at  me  like  a  wild  beast 
and  accused  me  of  having  ruined  his  life,  and  threatened  that 
he  would  go  off  to  America  !  ' 

Lazare  interrupted  her  in  furious  tones : 

'  You  are  lying !  If  you  had  chided  me  for  my  absence  in 
that  gentle  fashion,  I  should  have  kissed  you,  and  there  would 
have  been  an  end  of  the  matter.  But  it  was  you  who  accused 
me  of  making  you  spend  your  life  in  tears.  Yes,  you  threat- 
ened to  go  and  throw  yourself  into  the  sea,  if  I  continued  to 
make  your  life  unbearable.' 

Then  they  flew  at  each  other  again,  and  gave  vent  to  all 
the  bitterness  which  the  continual  jarring  of  their  tempera- 
ments aroused  in  them.  The  slightest  little  differences  set 
them  bickering,  and  brought  them  to  a  state  of  exasperated 
antipathy  which  made  the  rest  of  the  day  wretched.  When- 
ever her  husband  interfered  with  her  enjoyment  Louise, 
despite  her  gentle  face,  proved  as  malicious  as  a  fawning  cat, 
that  loves  to  be  caressed,  but  strikes  out  with  its  claws  at  the 
slightest  irritation ;  and  Lazare,  finding  in  these  quarrels  a 
relief  from  his  besetting  ennui,  frequently  persisted  in  them 
for  the  sake  of  the  excitement  they  brought. 

However,  Pauline  continued  listening  to  the  quarrel. 
She  was  suffering  greater  unhappiness  than  they  themselves 
were.  That  fashion  of  loving  one  another  was  beyond  her 
comprehension.  Why  couldn't  they  make  mutual  allowances 
and  accommodate  themselves  to  each  other,  since  they  had  to 
live  together  ?  She  was  deeply  pained,  for  she  still  regarded 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  311 

the  marriage  as  her  own  work,  and  she  longed  to  see  it  a 
happy  and  harmonious  one,  so  that  she  might  feel  compensated 
for  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  by  knowing  that  she  had,  at  any 
rate,  acted  rightly. 

'I  never  reproach  you  for  squandering  my  fortune,' 
Louise  continued. 

'  There  was  only  that  accusation  wanting  ! '  Lazare  cried. 
'  It  wasn't  my  fault  that  I  was  robbed  of  it.' 

'  Oh !  it's  only  stupid  folks  who  allow  their  pockets  to  be 
emptied,  who  are  robbed.  But,  any  way,  we  are  now  reduced 
to  a  wretched  income  of  four  or  five  thousand  francs,  barely 
sufficient  to  enable  us  to  live  in  this  hole  of  a  place.  If  it 
were  not  for  Pauline,  our  child  would  have  to  go  naked  one  of 
these  days,  for  I  quite  expect  that  you  will  squander  all  that 
we  have  left,  what  with  all  your  extraordinary  fads  and  specu- 
lations that  come  to  grief  one  after  the  other.' 

'  There  !  there  !  Prate  away !  Your  father  has  already 
paid  me  similar  pretty  compliments.  I  guessed  you  had  been 
writing  to  him.  I've  given  up  that  speculation  in  manure  in 
consequence ;  though  I  know  it  was  a  perfectly  safe  thing, 
with  cent,  per  cent,  to  be  gained.  But  now  I'm  like  you,  and 
I've  had  enough  of  it,  and  the  deuce  take  me  if  I  bestir  myself 
any  more.  We  will  go  on  living  here.' 

'  A  pretty  life,  isn't  it,  for  a  woman  of  my  age  ?  It'a 
nothing  but  a  gaol,  with  never  an  opportunity  of  going  out  or 
seeing  anybody ;  and  there's  that  stupid  sea  for  ever  in  front 

of  one,  which  only  seems  to  increase  one's  ennui Oh  !  if 

I  had  only  known  !  If  I  had  only  known  ! ' 

'  And  do  you  suppose  that  I  enjoy  myself  here  ?  If  I  were 
not  married,  I  should  be  able  to  go  away  to  some  distant 
place  and  try  my  fortune.  I  have  longed  to  do  so  a  score  of 
times.  But  that's  all  at  an  end  now  ;  I'm  nailed  down  to  this 
lonely  wilderness,  where  there's  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  to 
sleep.  You  have  done  for  me  ;  I  feel  that  very  clearly.' 

'  I  have  done  for  you  1  I ! — I  didn't  force  you  to  marry  me, 
did  I  ?  It  was  you  who  ought  to  have  seen  that  we  were  not 
suited  to  each  other.  It  is  your  fault  if  our  lives  are  wrecked.' 

'  Ah  !  yes,  indeed,  our  lives  are  certainly  wrecked,  and  you 
do  all  you  can  to  make  them  more  intolerable  every  day.' 

Pauline,  though  she  had  resolved  not  to  interfere  between 
them,  could  no  longer  restrain  herself. 

'  Oh  !  do  give  over,  you  unhappy  creatures  1  You  seem  to 
take  a  pleasure  in  marring  a  life  which  might  be  such  a  happy 


3i2  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

one.  Why  will  you  goad  each  other  into  saying  things 
which  you  cannot  recall  and  which  make  you  so  wretched  ? 
Hold  your  tongues,  both  of  you !  I  won't  let  this  go  on  any 
longer.' 

Louise  had  fallen  into  a  chair  in  a  fit  of  tears,  while 
Lazare,  in  a  state  of  wild  excitement,  strode  up  and  down  the 
room. 

1  Crying  won't  do  any  good,  my  dear,'  Pauline  continued. 
'  You  are  really  not  tolerant ;  you  have  too  many  grievances. 
And  you,  my  poor  fellow,  how  can  you  treat  her  in  this 
unkind  fashion  ?  It  is  abominable  of  you.  I  thought  that,  at 
any  rate,  you  had  a  kind  heart.  You  are,  both  of  you,  a 
couple  of  overgrown  children,  and  are  equally  in  fault,  making 
yourselves  wretched  without  knowing  why.  But  I  won't 
have  it  any  longer,  do  you  hear  ?  I  won't  have  unhappy 
people  about  me.  Go  and  kiss  each  other  at  once  ! ' 

She  tried  to  laugh ;  she  no  longer  felt  that  tremor  which 
had  at  first  so  disquieted  her.  She  was  only  thrilled  by  a 
glow  of  kindliness,  a  desire  to  see  them  in  each  other's  arms, 
so  that  she  might  be  sure  their  quarrel  was  at  an  end. 

'  Kiss  him,  indeed !  I  should  just  think  so  I '  exclaimed 
Louise.  '  He  has  insulted  me  too  much  ! ' 

'  Never ! '  exclaimed  Lazare. 

Then  Pauline  broke  into  a  merry  laugh. 

'  Come,  come  I '  she  said  ;  '  don't  sulk  with  each  other. 
You  know,  I  am  very  determined  about  having  my  own  way. 
The  dinner  is  getting  burnt,  and  our  guests  are  waiting.  If 
you  don't  do  as  I  tell  you,  Lazare,  I  shall  come  and  make 
you.  Go  down  on  your  knees  before  her,  and  clasp  her  affec 
tionately  to  your  heart.  No,  no !  you  must  do  it  better  than 
that  1 ' 

She  made  them  twine  their  arms  closely  and  lovingly 
about  each  other,  and  watched  them  kiss,  with  an  air  of  joyful 
triumph,  without  the  least  sign  of  trouble  in  her  clear,  calm 
eyes.  Within  her  glowed  warm,  thrilling  joy,  like  some  subtle 
fire,  which  raised  her  high  above  them.  Lazare  pressed  his 
wife  to  his  heart  in  remorse ;  and  Louise,  who  was  still  in 
her  dressing-wrap,  with  her  neck  and  arms  bare,  returned 
his  caresses,  her  tears  streaming  forth  more  freely  than 
before. 

'  There !  that's  much  nicer,  isn't  it,  than  quarrelling  ?  * 
said  Pauline.  '  I  will  be  off,  now  that  you  no  longer  need  me 
to  make  peace  between  you.' 


THE  fOY  OF  LIFE  313 

She  sprang  to  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  quickly  closed  it 
upon  that  chamber  of  love,  with  its  perfume  of  heliotrope, 
which  now  thrilled  her  with  soft  emotion,  as  though  it  were 
an  accomplice  perfume  which  would  complete  her  task  of 
reconciliation. 

When  she  got  downstairs  to  the  kitchen,  Pauline  began  to 
sing  as  she  stirred  her  stew.  Then  she  threw  a  bundle  ot 
wood  on  the  fire,  arranged  the  turnspit,  and  began  to  watch 
the  duck  roast  with  a  critical  eye.  It  amused  her  to  have  to 
play  the  servant's  part.  She  had  tied  a  big  white  apron  round 
her,  and  felt  quite  pleased  at  the  thought  of  waiting  upon 
them  all  and  undertaking  the  most  humble  duties,  so  that  she 
might  be  able  to  tell  them  that  they  were  that  day  indebted 
to  her  for  their  gaiety  and  health.  Now  that,  thanks  to  her, 
they  were  smiling  and  happy,  she  wanted  to  serve  them  a 
festive  repast  of  very  good  things,  of  which  they  would  par- 
take plentifully  while  growing  bright  and  mirthful  round  the 
table. 

She  thought,  however,  of  her  uncle  and  the  child  again, 
and  hastily  ran  out  on  to  the  terrace,  where  she  was  greatly 
astonished  to  find  her  cousin  seated  by  the  side  of  his  little 
son. 

'  What  1 '  she  exclaimed,  '  have  you  come  down  already  ?  * 

He  merely  nodded  his  head  in  answer.  He  seemed  to 
have  fallen  back  into  his  former  weary  indifference ;  his 
shoulders  were  bent,  and  his  hands  were  lying  listlessly  in 
front  of  him.  Then  Pauline  said  to  him  with  an  expression 
of  uneasy  anxiety : 

'  I  hope  you  didn't  begin  again  as  soon  as  my  back  was 
turned  ? ' 

'  No,  no  ! '  he  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  reply.  '  She 
will  be  down  as  soon  as  she  has  put  on  her  dress.  We  have 
quite  forgiven  each  other  and  made  it  up.  But  how  long  will 
it  last  ?  To-morrow  there  will  be  something  else ;  every  day, 
every  hour !  You  can't  change  people,  and  you  can't  prevent 
things  happening.' 

Pauline  became  very  grave,  and  her  saddened  eyes  sought 
the  ground.  Lazare  was  right.  She  could  clearly  foresee  a 
long  series  of  days  like  this  in  store  for  them,  the  same  in- 
cessant quarrels,  which  she  would  have  to  smooth  away.  And 
she  was  no  longer  quite  sure  that  she  was  altogether  cured 
herself,  and  might  not  again  give  way  to  her  old  outbursts  of 
jealousy.  Ah !  were  these  daily  troubles  never  to  have  an 


3i4  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

end  ?  But  she  had  already  raised  her  eyes  again ;  she  remem- 
bered how  many  times  she  had  won  the  victory  over  herself ; 
and  as  for  those  other  two,  she  would  see  whether  they  would 
not  grow  tired  of  quarrelling  hefore  she  did  of  reconciling 
them.  This  thought  brightened  her,  and  she  laughingly 
repeated  it  to  Lazare.  What  would  be  left  for  her  to  do,  if 
the  house  became  perfectly  happy  ?  She  would  fall  a  victim 
to  ennui  herself,  if  she  hadn't  some  little  worries  to  smooth 
away. 

'  Where  are  the  priest  and  the  Doctor  ? '  she  asked,  sur- 
prised to  see  them  no  longer  there. 

'  They  must  have  gone  into  the  kitchen  garden,'  said 
Chanteau.  'The  Abb6  wanted  to  show  our  pears  to  the 
Doctor.' 

Pauline  was  going  to  look  from  the  corner  of  the  terrace, 
when  she  stopped  short  before  little  Paul. 

1  Ah  !  He  has  woke  up  again  ! '  she  cried.  '  Just  look  at 
him !  He's  already  trying  to  be  off  on  the  loose  ! ' 

Paul  had  just  pulled  himself  up  on  to  his  little  knees  in 
the  midst  of  the  rug,  and  was  beginning  to  creep  off  slyly 
upon  all  fours.  Before  he  reached  the  gravel,  however,  he 
tripped  over  a  fold  in  the  rug,  and  rolled  upon  his  back, 
with  his  frock  thrown  back  and  his  little  legs  and  arms  in 
the  air.  He  lay  kicking  about  and  wriggling  amidst  the 
poppy-like  brilliance  of  the  rug. 

'  Well  I  he's  kicking  in  a  fine  way ! '  cried  Pauline  merrily. 
1  Look,  and  you  shall  see  how  he  has  improved  in  his  walking 
since  yesterday.' 

She  knelt  down  beside  the  child  and  tried  to  set  him  on 
his  feet.  He  had  developed  so  slowly  that  he  was  very  back- 
ward for  his  age,  and  they  had  for  a  time  feared  that  he  would 
always  be  weak  on  his  legs.  So  it  was  a  great  joy  to  the 
family  to  see  him  make  his  first  attempts  at  walking,  clutch- 
ing at  the  air  with  his  hands,  and  tumbling  down  over  the 
smallest  bit  of  gravel. 

'  Come  now  1  give  over  playing,'  Pauline  called  to  him. 
'  Come  and  show  them  that  you  are  a  man.  There  now,  keep 
steady,  and  go  and  kiss  papa,  and  then  you  shall  go  and  kiss 
grandfather.' 

Chanteau,  whose  face  was  twitching  with  sharp  shooting 
pains,  turned  his  head  to  watch  the  scene.  Lazare,  notwith- 
standing his  despondency,  was  willing  to  lend  himself  to  the 
fun. 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  315 

'  Come  along ! '  he  cried  to  the  child. 

'Oh  !  you  must  hold  out  your  arms  to  him,'  Pauline  ex- 
plained. '  He  won't  venture  if  you  don't.  He  likes  to  see 
something  that  he  can  fall  against.  Come,  my  treasure, 
pluck  up  a  little  courage  ! ' 

There  were  three  steps  for  him  to  take.  There  were  loving 
exclamations  and  unbounded  enthusiasm  when  Paul  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  that  little  distance,  with  all  the  swaying  of  a 
tight-rope  walker  who  feels  uncertain  of  his  legs.  He  fell 
into  the  arms  of  his  father,  who  kissed  him  on  his  still  scanty 
hair,  while  he  smiled  with  an  infant's  vague  delighted  smile, 
widely  opening  his  moist  and  rosy  little  mouth.  Then  his 
godmother  wanted  to  make  him  talk,  but  his  tongue  was  still 
more  backward  than  his  legs,  and  he  only  uttered  guttural 
sounds  in  which  his  relatives  alone  could  distinguish  the 
words  '  papa '  and  '  marnma.' 

'  Oh !  but  there's  something  else  yet,'  Pauline  resumed. 
'  He  promised  to  go  and  kiss  his  grandfather.  Go  along  with 
you  !  Ah !  it's  a  fine  walk  you've  got  before  you  this  time ! ' 

There  were  at  least  eight  steps  between  Lazare's  chair  and 
Chanteau's.  Paul  had  never  ventured  so  far  out  into  the 
world  before,  and  so  there  was  considerable  excitement  about 
the  matter.  Pauline  took  up  a  position  half-way  in  order  to 
prevent  accidents,  and  two  long  minutes  were  spent  in  persuad- 
ing the  child  to  make  a  start.  At  last  he  set  off,  swaying  about, 
with  his  hands  clutching  the  air.  For  an  instant  Pauline 
thought  that  she  would  have  to  catch  him  in  her  arms,  but 
he  pushed  bravely  forward  and  fell  upon  Chanteau's  knees. 
Bursts  of  applause  greeted  him. 

Then  they  made  him  repeat  the  journey  half  a  score  of 
times.  He  no  longer  showed  any  signs  of  fear ;  he  started 
off  at  the  first  call,  went  from  his  grandfather  to  his 
father,  and  then  back  again  to  his  grandfather,  laughing 
loudly  all  the  time,  and  quite  enjoying  the  fun,  though  he 
always  seemed  on  the  point  of  tumbling  over,  as  if  the 
ground  were  shaking  beneath  him. 

1  Just  once  again  to  father  1 '  Pauline  cried. 

Lazare  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  tired.  Children,  even 
his  own,  quickly  bored  him.  As  he  looked  at  his  boy,  so 
merry  and  now  out  of  danger,  the  thought  flashed  through 
his  mind  that  this  little  creature  would  outlive  him  and 
would  doubtless  close  his  eyes  for  the  last  time,  an  idea  which 
made  him  shudder  with  agony.  Since  he  had  come  to  the 


3i$  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

determination  to  continue  vegetating  at  Bonneville,  he  was 
constantly  occupied  with  the  thought  that  he  would  die  in 
the  room  where  his  mother  had  died ;  and  he  never  went  up 
the  stairs  without  telling  himself  that  one  day  his  coffin 
would  pass  that  way.  The  entrance  to  the  passage  was  very 
narrow,  and  there  was  an  awkward  turning,  which  was  a 
perpetual  source  of  disquietude  to  him,  and  he  worried 
himself  with  wondering  how  the  bearers  would  be  able  to 
carry  him  out  without  jolting  him.  As  increasing  age  day  by 
day  shortened  his  span  of  life,  that  constant  dwelling  upon 
the  thought  of  death  hastened  his  breaking-up,  annihilated 
his  last  shreds  of  manliness.  He  was  '  quite  done  for,"  as  he 
often  told  himself ;  he  was  of  no  further  use  at  all,  and  he 
would  ask  himself  what  was  the  good  of  bestirring  himself, 
as  he  fell  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  slough  of  boredom. 

'  Just  once  more  to  grandfather  ! '  cried  Pauline. 

Chanteau  was  not  able  to  stretch  out  his  arms  to  receive 
and  support  his  grandson,  and,  though  he  set  his  knees  apart, 
the  clutching  of  the  child's  puny  fingers  at  his  trousers  drew 
sighs  of  pain  from  him.  The  little  one  was  already  used  to 
the  old  man's  ceaseless  moaning,  and  probably  imagined,  in 
his  scarcely  awakened  mind,  that  all  grandfathers  suffered  in 
the  same  way.  That  day,  however,  in  the  bright  sunshine, 
as  he  came  and  fell  against  him,  he  raised  his  little  face, 
checked  his  laugh,  and  gazed  at  the  old  man  with  his 
vacillating  eyes.  The  grandfather's  deformed  hands  looked 
like  hideous  blocks  of  mingled  flesh  and  chalk;  his  face, 
dented  with  red  wrinkles,  disfigured  by  suffering,  seemed  to 
have  been  violently  twisted  towards  his  right  shoulder; 
while  his  whole  body  was  covered  with  bumps  and  crevices, 
as  if  it  were  that  of  some  old  stone  saint,  damaged  and  badly 
pieced  together.  Paul  appeared  quite  surprised  to  see  him 
looking  so  ill  and  so  old  in  the  sunshine. 

'  Just  once  more  !     Just  once  more ! '  cried  Pauline  again. 

She,  full  of  health  and  cheerfulness,  kept  sending  the 
little  lad  to  and  fro  between  the  two  men,  from  the  grand- 
father, who  obstinately  lived  on  in  hopeless  suffering,  to 
the  father,  who  was  already  undermined  by  terror  of  the 
hereafter. 

'  Perhaps  his  generation  will  be  a  less  foolish  one  than 
this,'  she  suddenly  exclaimed.  '  He  won't  accuse  chemistry 
of  spoiling  his  life  ;  he  will  believe  that  it  is  still  possible  to 
live,  even  with  the  certainty  of  having  some  day  to  die.' 


THE  JOY  OF  LIFE  317 

Lazare  smiled  in  an  embarrassed  way. 

'  Bah ! '  he  muttered,  '  he  will  have  the  gout  like  my 
father,  and  his  nerves  will  be  worse  strung  than  mine.  Just 
see  how  weak  he  is !  It  is  the  law  of  degeneration.' 

'  Be  quiet  1 '  cried  Pauline.  '  I  will  bring  him  up,  and 
you'll  see  if  I  don't  make  a  man  of  him  I ' 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  while  she  clasped  the  child 
to  her  in  a  motherly  embrace. 

'Why  don't  you  get  married,  as  you're  so  fond  of 
children  ?  '  Lazare  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

'  But  I  have  a  child  I  Haven't  you  given  me  one  ?  I  get 
married  !  Never !  What  an  idea ! ' 

She  dandled  little  Paul  in  her  arms,  and  laughed  yet 
more  loudly  as  she  declared  that  Lazare  had  quite  converted 
her  to  the  doctrines  of  the  great  Saint  Schopenhauer,  and 
that  she  would  remain  unmarried  in  order  to  be  able  to 
work  for  the  universal  deliverance.  And  she  was,  indeed, 
the  incarnation  of  renunciation,  of  love  for  others  and  kindly 
charity  for  erring  humanity. 

The  sun  was  sinking  to  rest  in  the  boundless  waters, 
perfect  serenity  fell  from  the  paling  sky,  the  immensity  of  air 
and  sea  alike  lay  wrapped  in  all  the  mellow  softness  of  the 
close  of  a  lovely  day.  Far  away  over  the  water  one  single 
little  white  sail  gleamed  like  a  spark,  but  it  vanished  as  the 
sun  sank  beneath  the  long  line  of  the  horizon ;  then  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  save  the  gradual  deepening  of  the 
twilight  over  the  motionless  sea.  And  Pauline  was  still 
dandling  the  child,  and  laughing  with  brave  gaiety  as  she 
stood  between  her  despairing  cousin  and  her  moaning  uncle, 
in  the  middle  of  the  terrace,  which  was  now  growing  bluish 
in  the  shadowy  dusk.  She  had  stripped  herself  of  every- 
thing, but  happiness  rang  out  in  her  clear  laugh. 

1  Aren't  we  going  to  dine  this  evening  ? '  asked  Louise, 
making  her  appearance  in  a  coquettish  dress  of  grey  silk. 

'  I'm  quite  ready,'  Pauline  replied.  '  I  can't  think  what 
they  can  be  doing  in  the  garden.' 

At  that  moment  Abb6  Horteur  came  back,  looking  very 
much  distressed.  In  reply  to  their  anxious  questions,  after 
seeking  for  some  phrase  which  would  soften  the  shock,  he 
ended  by  bluntly  saying  : 

'  We  have  just  discovered  poor  Veronique  hanging  from 
one  of  your  pear-trees.' 


3i8  THE  JOY  OF  LIFE 

They  all  raised  a  cry  of  surprise  and  horror,  and  their 
faces  paled  beneath  the  passing  quiver  of  death. 

'  But  what  could  make  her  do  such  a  thing  ?  '  cried  Pau- 
line. '  She  could  have  had  no  reason,  and  she  had  even  to 
prepare  the  dinner.  It  can  scarcely  be  because  I  told  her 
that  they  had  made  her  pay  ten  sous  too  much  for  her  duck ! ' 

In  his  turn  Doctor  Cazenove  now  came  up.  For  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  been  vainly  trying  to  restore 
animation  to  the  poor  woman's  body  in  the  coach-house, 
whither  Martin  had  helped  him  to  carry  it.  One  could  never 
tell,  he  said,  what  such  whimsical  old  servants  would  do.  She 
had  never  really  got  over  her  mistress's  death. 

'  It  didn't  take  her  long,'  he  added.  '  She  just  strung 
herself  up  by  the  strings  of  one  of  her  kitchen  aprons.' 

Lazare  and  Louise,  frozen  with  terror,  said  not  a  word. 
Chanteau,  after  listening  in  silence,  felt  a  pang  of  disgust  aa 
he  thought  of  the  compromised  dinner.  And  that  wretched 
creature  without  hands  or  feet,  who  had  to  be  put  to  bed  and 
fed  like  a  child,  that  pitiable  remnant  of  a  man,  whose 
almost  vanished  life  was  nothing  more  than  one  scream  of 
pain,  cried  out  in  furious  indignation : 

'  What  a  fool  one  must  be  to  go  and  kill  oneself  1 ' 


THE   END 


PBIKTED  BY 

8POTTISWOODE  AND  CO.  LTD.,  COLCHESTER 
LONDON  AND  ETON 


v' 

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